The Unnamed Episode
by Chancellor Amethyst
Summary: NickLaCroix...a possible take on an episode if the writers had decided to favour the unnamed faction. Nick gets involved in an altercation outside the Raven, and his actions don't go unpunished. As ever, LaCroix is around and makes hisself useful in his


**The Unnamed Episode**

_by The Chancellor Amethyst_

* * *

_Authors note, as to why: I write because we all would have like to seen Forever Knight in a less daytime TV type way--many things were handled with a degree of fluff, after all. Since it was the nineties, there was a very delicate handling of homosexuality. The only blatant mention was the girl asking Nick if he was straight. There was implication that Nat's doctor friend who was dying of AIDS was queer, but, again, that issue was tiptoed around. Now, I'm a big gay culture and Queen fan, so I'm writing this to satisfy my need to see Nick forced without mercy into a more queer light, and the acceptance/questioning era of the nineties. We, rather, _I_ wanted to see this, and here's my view of things. This story is AU as of the episode "Close Call."_ _1995; Toronto, The Raven_ "Nice of you to drop by, Nicholas," came a voice from behind, one he had not been expecting. 

"LaCroix," he replied simply, spinning around.

"Why, Nicholas, you seem surprised to see me here..." he paused momentarily, but continued regardless. "If you're looking for Janette, she's not here." He smiled sweetly, his ironic humour not lost. "But if you came to see me, I'm deeply flattered."

Nick had regained his breath and composure from his initial surprise. With similar humour, he replied, "You'll do," wishing that Janette was here. Dealing with LaCroix was not what he'd planned for tonight.

"I'm deeply relieved to hear this, Nicholas. Now, what troubles you so that you'd bother reuniting with your kind?"

Nicholas prattled on about his question, about an old acquaintance of theirs, probably related to a "case" no doubt; LaCroix paid more attention to an argument near by. Not that he didn't listen to Nicholas, of course, but he was acting as manager in Janette's absence. It had nothing to do with his lack of interest in the banal subject. Nothing at all.

After Nicholas had finished his tiring story about some woman's voluptuous beauty and unsurpassable musical talent (a rose-coloured glasses treatment of the whole scenario, he found) LaCroix gave him some of the answers he sought. Yes, she really was dead; no, he hadn't heard otherwise; yes, of course, it was for a case. He wasn't sure if he was still flattered that he'd "do." Still, Nicholas seemed amiable of late--never bad news.

As Nick walked off, he returned his full attention back to the argument in progress. They, too, were getting up to leave. The less aggressive of the pair-a vampire at least centuries old to LaCroix's best recollection-had gotten up. This was not the first of their arguments, LaCroix knew. Zuhayr, that was his name. Just like him to fall under old patterns and wind up with an abusive master and then struggle to be rid of him. This master was different, though, as he was mortal. He watched as they left out the door, and quickly followed suit. Both had been drinking heavily, and damned if there was going to be a negligence claim against the Raven on his watch.

LaCroix watched silently from around the corner. In the distance he saw Nicholas sitting in his car. The pair still argued, their voices returning to their previous cresendo now that they were "alone."

"Stay away from me," Zuhayr said, his tone cold and red threatening to enter his eyes.

"Fucking bitch," he replied. "Never talk to me like that," and with that, the mortal smacked the other violently.

With his superior strength, Zuhayr violently pulled the previously unnoticeable leash attached to his collar to himself. "I do as I pl--"

"You do as I fucking say. You're mine, after all I've done for you."

"You have done little for me. I belong to _no one_."

The mortal tried to grab back the leash, and LaCroix readied himself to stop any attack that might occur. Between the club and the community, no good would come of Zuhayr acting on his anger. "You belong to whoever the fuck _takes_ you."

The mortal moved closer, attempting to initiate a kiss--an unwelcome kiss. Zuhayr pushed him back. "I am _not_ your catamite!"

Nick watched all this from his car. Between his meeting with LaCroix and the argument, he was dwelling on past memories, which came forward in a rush. He heard his voice and another in his mind, memories coming to surface, and his eyes echoing the red anger he felt.

_...from so long ago, he heard LaCroix' voice, "Mon protégé."_

_"Votre in from the outside, furious that LaCroix had been following him, LaCroix tried to explain, "I followed because I was curious where you would go... a study of--"_

_"I am free to come and go of my own accord," he spat back, "je ne suis pas votre esclave, LaCroix."_

_...and LaCroix's mocking voice, after Nick had again asserted his right to freedom, "All it ever is from you is 'I'm not your slave, LaCroix, I don't belong to you' and all that nonsense. Soon I won't have to do anything and you'll repeat your favourite little words," his tone had been silky, "I'm not your slave. You know, Nicholas, methinks you do protest too much," he said with a little laugh._

Now this young, dark haired man's voice rang in his mind, and image of his snapping back the leash. _"I am _not_ your catamite!"_

Making his decision quickly, Nick ran out of his car, pulling the older and stronger man away from the younger. Filled with rage, he threw him to the ground, yelling something even he couldn't comprehend. The young man just stood frozen against the wall as Nick landed a punch square to the other's jaw. He continued to do so--he didn't know how long he did--until he was pulled away from the man, who now lay still on the ground. He looked up, and saw the younger one ahead of him, still stunned. He looked behind to see who had pulled him away, and met the golden-ire gaze of LaCroix.

"This isn't good for business," he said humourously, but Nick caught the underlying anger and threat clear as glass.

Instantly Nick cooled, kneeling down as LaCroix freed him and checked his victim's pulse. Still there. He exhaled in relief. He was only unconscious. He sighed even more deeply, gathering his courage and pulling out his phone, calling it in.

* * *

They'd suspended him. He hated that, but this suspension he couldn't protest. His suspension was light, thankfully, because he was regarded as a cop going overboard rather than a provoked fight. Even still, he hated suspensions. 

He entered the familiar white and blue atmosphere of Natalie's office. Maybe she'd heard, maybe she hadn't... he hoped that she hadn't--

"Nick! What the _hell_ happened?"

She had.

"I... got carried away."

"Understatement of the century award, here. Two broken ribs, dislocated jaw, multiple fractures to his--what the hell were you thinking?"

"I... I was trying to..." he lowered his head. "I wasn't thinking." Half-truth, he supposed.

"Lucky his injuries weren't worse, last thing--"

"Wait, how'd find out his injuries?"

She looked at him pointedly.

"Right. Friends at the hospital."

"Now, Nick, tell me what happened."

"He was arguing with his... companion. I thought it might turn violent."

Nat raised her eyebrows. "And so your solution was to go and beat him to a pulp?"

"He's alive," Nick offered in his weak defence.

Nat rolled her eyes. "I heard they suspended you."

Nick nodded. "That's a joke. Only for a day."

Nat's eyebrows went higher. "A _day_? Our police are allowed to do this and get suspended a day?"

"I'm being charged. That's the punishment. The suspension is just a cool-off period."

"Well, don't I feel safe. Wait... he's charging you?"

It was Nick's eyebrows' turn to rise. "That surprises you?"

"Well, no, but... trials happen during the day...."

Nick nodded absently. "Consider that part of my punishment," he added, trying for gingerly. "I'm also on probation until the trial concludes," he offered. "Feel any safer?"

Nat frowned. "A bit."

"So... any other news on how he's doing?"

"He'll live," Nat said soberly.

"Good news."

"Nick, what compelled you to do this? Someone argues and you intervene by brutality? That's not the Nick Knight I know."

"No, it isn't."

"Well?"

Nick thought about it. "Consider it... a bizarre hostage situation. He thought his... date wanted to do what he wanted," he choked out, "but... that wasn't the case."

"So, you gallantly rescue the damsel in distress."

Nick smiled. "You could say that."

Nat frowned again. "I hope this doesn't spoil your progress."

"I hope so, too."

* * *

_Where was he? It was... he was... he remembered this place... this time. It had to be around the late 1200s, and he only knew by memory, because he knew where he was. The house he shared with LaCroix and Janette, in France. Wait... no, it wasn't France yet. The house they shared in what would become France._

_He had been... running. No, not running. Walking... slightly rushed by his anger... anger because LaCroix had been chasing him. No, not chasing him... following him, spying on him. He remembered that._

_He turned sharply. "_Pourquoi est-ce que vous m'avez suivi?_" he asked, directly confronting him._

_LaCroix answered frankly, features unrelenting. "I followed because I was curious where you would go... a study of--"_

_"I am free to come and go of my own accord," he spat back. "_Je ne suis pas votre esclave, _LaCroix."_

_LaCroix's raised hand lowered, and his featured softened, losing none of their authority. He realised, rather remembered, that Janette stood in the room as well, watching their exchange with concern and... something else. LaCroix continued. "_Nicolas, je dédaigne de faire que tu dit." His hand rose again, not to scold, but it instead came to rest on his cheek. Nick closed his eyes, relieved when he wasn't scolded, surprised at this and relished the caress. "Tu es vraiment plus qu'un esclave,_" LaCroix's hand began to trail along his hairline, thrillingly beautiful. He heard a slight click from LaCroix, and an odd intake of breath from Janette, but paid both noises little attention. "_J'ai trop d'une prédiliction pour toi,_" he finished with a purr. He heard LaCroix move closer, and he felt his breathing quicken as he lowered his head slightly. "_Non, Nicolas,_" he felt LaCroix take his hand firmly with his free one, the other still tracing slow, delicate patterns on his face._

_He had opened his mouth to speak, but only a sigh emerged._

_"You are not my slave," the hand stopped, still resting on his cheek, LaCroix's thumb trailing under his chin and along his neck. "Never more than I am yours. You are much more to me than that." He felt the thumb push, more guide, his head up slowly. "_Mon frère..._" LaCroix closed the distance between them, "my son... my husband."_

_It was an eternity as he leaned in. Despite his closed eyes, he felt him nearing, he felt him. An eternity, and their lips touched..._

Nick woke up, panting and immediately seated, a quick swipe of his forehead and he knew he sweating. Though so long ago.... He realised his hand lay on his chest, his fingers pacing the skin. He exhaled deeply, the memories coming back in a swirl. He leaned back, resting against the headboard. His free hand found its way to his mouth, touching and teasing the extended fangs. He closed his eyes, indulging the memory that now seemed more a fantasy. His other hand slid further down his chest, past his stomach. He bit violently into his wrist; his other hand was stroking himself--controlled seemingly by his subconscious. For a brief second he wondered if indeed someone else where controlling him, but dismissed that as improbable.

His paces quickened and he played out the rest of the memory in his mind. LaCroix's hand through his hair; his lips touching his own in the deepest embrace... he couldn't push that memory aside. And he needed this relief, needed it desperately. He continued, forgetting the restraints he'd placed on himself and everything he'd told himself. He released his wrist, traces of his own blood about the edges of his mouth. He thrashed backwards, his head violently connecting with the head-board, but almost failed to register that.

He shook his head just after he'd finished, not willing to think about whose name he'd whispered as he came. No. He'd sworn that away. Dwelling wasn't going to help it. He shook his head, freeing himself of the recollection, determined to go back to sleep and forget about everything, at least for now.

* * *

That night found him in his car, and his radio tuned inevitably to CERK. He was going to go see Nat, but was putting that off. He wanted to talk to someone about it, someone who could help him control it. Who would he talk to? Janette was out of town, and he trusted no one else that he could talk to about it. He was still going to see Nat, eventually, but he had no clue what he was going to say. She'd know something was wrong, yet he could tell her so little. 

"...as you know, control is roughly our topic for tonight," LaCroix's voice continued in the background. "But not any control. Control of our deepest, darkest natures, and those which aren't perhaps so dark, but in our little minds and lives we make them so. Gentle listeners, we have a caller."

Nick didn't like the callers so much. Half the time they sounded just as deranged as the rest of the show, but lacked the soothing purr of the host... also not to mention the lack of eloquence. The other half of the time they were completely uninteresting, lacking even the deranged nature that the Night Crawler seemed to provoke. It was fun to hear LaCroix put up with them, though, as he was usually alone as he did his show, with no one to screen the calls.

"...I just wanted to say first, that I'm a big fan..."

Biggest cliché of them all. Couldn't callers at least say something interesting? Morbid? Obscene? The only memorable one he'd ever heard was the woman who fanatically wanted to convince LaCroix into letting her have his children. That had been amusing.

"Anyway, I've been trying to convince my husband into a threesome," the slightly whining female voice continued.

Kinky, if not tawdry and clichéd, but at least it was something. Nick still preferred the shows that had few callers, if any. The no call in shows--that's what he enjoyed best.

"...becoming nagging? I was thinking, as I was listening, that maybe it's one of those dark urges thing. I've just always wanted to see that, you know? Two men together, it's always been a fetish, I guess. I know I'm being too harsh on him, now. But he never said no, you see, so I've always asked and tried to convince him, I even know someone who said they will."

That poor man, to be wed to a woman that hung up and that talkative, Nick mused.

"...should I control my urges to see men kissing?"

Wow. She had the power to stop talking. Nick was faintly amused that she didn't start talking again before LaCroix could answer. Besides, he thought, they were in Toronto. It was never hard to go see two men kissing, if you knew the city well enough.

"My dear," LaCroix began, "homosexuality is hardly a dark urge. I think the area of control you need to work on is more that of not working your husband into a corner where he has no choice but to say yes, or otherwise be subjected to your... subsequent mercies."

Nick laughed to himself. Exactly.

"...you know, normally men are afraid to talk about that kind of thing. The only gay man I know, who said he would, is usually really afraid to talk, so it's kind of odd--you're British, right? I always thought you were British."

Nick raised an eyebrow at the thought process. It made sense though, given LaCroix's current accent.

"In a manner of speaking," he replied coolly, "though I belong to no one country."

"Is it true that all British men are bisexual?"

Wow. What a brain, to make such logical conclusions out of anything. Nick half expected the next word out of her mouth to be "ergo".

"My child, you will most often find that such rampant generalisations are not truth."

"Are men afraid of talking about things like that? About gay men and about being gay?"

"What have been your observations on this?"

"Well, I'm usually to afraid to mention it, you know? Whenever I mention it at work or somewhere in a sort of way, like talking about Freddie Mercury or something, I usually get these weird looks, you know?"

Did she _have_ to say "you know" every other sentence?

"It is a universal constant that people are afraid of that which they do not know. Threatened by it. As society changes and a little thing called 'morality' rears its ugly head and decides what now should be right and wrong, people are again thrust wildly into the dark about many things, and there are that many more things for them to fear and misunderstand."

"So, it's not wrong, then?"

"Gentle listener, that all depends on your definition of wrong."

"So, it's okay to ask again?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps, just perhaps, he might not want to? On the subject of control, it is rarely a good idea to push loved ones well past their limits. I am saying that you are not wrong to ask, but unless you want to risk a divorce, perhaps putting the issue to rest would be a good idea, at least for a little while. Besides, if you really wish to see such activity, there are many venues available. Though I'm sure none of them would have the benefit of starring your husband."

"Oh, I never really wanted to see him kiss a man, I just wasn't sure how to go about the fantasy, you know. I'm too scared to go a place... like that, maybe I'll just rent a movie. Thanks."

Nick's eyebrows remained in their position, revealing their owner's bewildered amusement over the last call. At least that was a somewhat interesting call, he thought as he rounded the corner to pull up to Nat's building.

* * *

"Nick! What are you doing here on your, for lack of a nicer word, day-off?" 

Nick walked in and leaned against the table. "Just... I got in my car and started driving around and ended up here."

"Trying to work on your not supposed to work day?"

"Not really." He looked around at the room, looking rather usual in its corpse-here, corpse-there type decor. "What were you up to?"

"Well, after I prepared the samples, I was going to do a post mort on our latest victim."

"What happened?" he asked, gaining his professional countenance.

"No. Not your case."

Nick slouched, professional air lost as he knew he couldn't win that argument. "Oh."

Nat rolled her eyes. "Come on, Nick, why'd you come here?"

Nick shrugged. "Just... didn't want to be alone, I guess."

Nat approached him. "What's going on, Nick? I want to help you."

"Sometimes just being there for someone is help enough." Bad move... though his words were sincere, it confirmed something was wrong.

But she backed off anyway. "All right... but you promise you'll tell me when... well, that you'll tell me eventually, at least."

Nick smiled and nodded. "I will."

"Now, you want to help with this post-mort?" she asked, half jokingly, but wishing someone would help.

"I'll pass."

* * *

On the way home, feeling restless, he drove by the crime scene, turning on his scanner to find it. He watched as Schanke buzzed about the front of the building--a low rise apartment building--talking to officers and a few of the tenants. Some one had been murdered on the front lawn. From what he could assess between his police radio and Schanke's converstaions, they had suspected robbery initially, but after a few peeks into insurance and financial records, their suspicions turned to the spouse. At least it didn't seem a hard case... he hated to put Schanke in danger because he took his frustrations out on some misguided Raven patron. 

He made a final swipe of the scene for himself and drove off, unnoticed. Despite his recognisible car he'd not been seen, which he contributed to Schanke's diligence.

He turned CERK back on, hoping he'd catch the end of the show and that LaCroix hadn't ducked out early. Hell, a "best of" tape would have been fine--he just wanted to listen to something.

"...more... forceful of our frustrations. My children, is it possible you have stepped over your boundries? We all give in to ourselves, more often than any of us will ever admit. For some of these gluttonies we feel guilty, for others we are punished. And in the cases of both, we accept that punishment. Guilt is a useful tool in odd ways, making one more willing to accept that what we done is not what should have happened. But we must not drown in our own guilt. My children, by this wonderfully indicative little light, I can assure you that we have a caller."

Nick rolled his eyes. There usually weren't calls so late, and LaCroix usually didn't take them if there were. Ah, well, maybe it was another nutjob wanting to convince a lover into a threesome, maybe this time with a woman, or maybe a goat. That might amuse him for at--

"...heard on the news that there was, going back to what you said earlier about being forceful and controlling hatred, a recent gay bashing outside a club."

"Well, my child, I must say this wonderful decade has come up with such interesting terms," LaCroix responded, rather absent-mindedly.

"Yeah, anyway, it's so awful that people take things to that extreme."

Through Nick's foreboding, he smiled. He'd previously thought the caller a woman, until he noted the occasionally masculine timbre and depth. It amused him slightly, but he felt... apprehensive.

"Extremes are that which make up our personalities, I've found. And, out of personal curiousity, what else did this news report say?"

"Um... last night or something there was a case of some guy beating this guy out with his boyfriend. Oh, right... they said he was a cop. How can any of us feel safe on the streets, if our cops are allowed to beat up homosexuals?"

Nick sat frozen. Shit. Press coverage of anything was bad. They thought he beat the man because he was gay? That had been the _last_ thing on his mind. Well, all right, _one_ of the last.

"Interesting," LaCroix drawled, seemingly not listening to the man's prattling.

"They probably gave him a slap on the wrist, he'll learn nothing and go straight back to hurting innocent--"

"If I may be so impolite as to cut you off," LaCroix said, in his familiar manner of reminding his guests just whose radio show this was, "I would like to pose a thought for you. I recall hearing some details about this. Now, there was a police officer, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And by 'a man and his boyfriend' I would assess that there were two men of a homosexual persuasion, correct?"

"I guess."

"So, if this was indeed a crime against a man simply because of who he chooses to take to bed with him, why did he target only one of them?"

A pause, and the caller's voice, unsure. "Are you saying it wasn't a hate crime?"

"I'm simply pointing out that not everything is always as it seems. My children, never take everything you hear at face value. And while this police officer did assault someone, rather indisputable, it must be said that I do not believe officers are _allowed_ to do this kind of thing, and I seriously doubt it will go unpunished, especially given all the press the incident has caused. More press than usual, especially concerning they can't release anyone's names, or even places."

"No, but they had the name of the club," the caller responded.

"Which makes them all the more precise. I've heard that those violently homophobic are often homosexuals themselves, but that aside, I believe that, as with all media, a story with no names and a few facts besides that there was a beating and a possibly homosexual person involved is bound to have a few details that still need working out."

"And there was a cop," the caller added, 'helpfully'.

"And that."

Nick shut off the radio. Bad. Very bad. Affirmative action, political correctness and all such cosiness he'd previously supported seemed like it had gotten out of hand. Anyone who was there, or at least knew the situation, wouldn't get "gay-bashing" out of it. Wouldn't he have hit both of them, as LaCroix mentioned? Hate crime? He didn't like the sound of it... didn't like the sound of any of it.

* * *

Part Two 

* * *

His discomfort with the situation didn't approve when he returned to work. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but it felt as though people were looking at him oddly or treating him differently or... something. He did what he usually did, ignoring any possible accusing stares. 

The first thing he did (after saying a purposefully quick hello to Schanke) was head to the interrogation rooms where statements were being taken regarding the assault. They had already taken LaCroix's and Zuhayr's, but IA had called them all back to check out everything again. Nick wandered over to the room where Zuhayr currently was, avoiding letting Schanke know where he was going, if only for a few minutes.

Zuhayr Bulsara. Odd name, Nick thought. Arabic first name, Persian last name. He certainly looked Persian, with a solid jaw line and dark eyes. He was smaller though, roughly five-six, and had a timid air despite his strength. Nick smiled briefly, knowing that for the first time in at least a while, Zuhayr was free.

"Hello, Nicholas," came an all too familiar voice from behind.

He turned slowly, not surprised to see LaCroix here. That didn't mean he couldn't question it. "Why are you here?"

LaCroix smiled. "I'm a witness, you know that."

"They already went over your statement. Why are you _still_ here?" Nick questioned, taking care to keep a low tone, knowing Schanke might be trying to find him.

LaCroix looked at the 'young' Persian. "I'm also here on behalf of the Enforcers, making sure that no one finds out... too much. That no one is held... at least not too long."

Nick looked at him intensely. "What are they afraid of? That I'd say something? I'm in no danger of being locked up--not yet and not for long even if something came out of this."

The smile returned to LaCroix's lips. "You, you, you... everything is always about you, isn't it?"

Nick looked puzzled for a moment. "If not me, than..." he looked to Zuhayr, still talking with an officer and the IA agents. "Him?"

"My, Nicholas, have you really dulled your senses sufficiently that you can't sense him? At all? Your destructive habits and your..." he shuddered visibly, "steer's blood."

"But he was with... _controlled_ by a _mortal_!" he replied, raising his voice only slightly.

LaCroix's eyes rolled slightly, and he turned to Nick with a faint smirk. "That doesn't negate what he is."

Nick returned his gaze to Zuhayr. How could a mortal control one of their kind? To the point of slavery? It was absurd, yet it seemed... so. He shook his head, still trtying to comprehend the bizarre arrangement.

LaCroix also gazed into the room, through the two-way glass, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. "I'm curious, Nicholas," he began with an odd tone. "Did you actually _see_ some sort of struggle between the pair?"

"You were there, LaCroix, why ask me?"

"Because, Nicholas, quite simply I've found what I see and what you see are often worlds apart."

"There was a struggle--but not a physical one."

"So there was no fight, except for one of a person trying for freedom they cannot attain--"

"Freedom... can be attained," he replied, saying the words without conviction.

"What will you tell your friends, I wonder? That you saw some sort of physical fight, or that you saw one of a more personal nature and, dare I say... that of the plight of a catamite?"

Nick turned swiftly. "I am _not_ your catamite!" he replied, lacking no conviction this time.

LaCroix chuckled softly to himself. "Nicholas," he said smoothly, "upgrading from slave to catamite, are we? I sincerely hope it's not because you've never been on top."

The elder vampire stayed only long enough to catch Nick's white-hot glare, turning and walking away quickly. He hadn't waited for a response, and he wouldn't have gotten one if he did. Nick wasn't sure for himself, as he watched LaCroix leave, how he felt about what LaCroix had just said. He was either appalled by it or--something. But he did know he was mad.

After a minute of brooding, he snapped out of it when he realised there was a new heartbeat. He spun around, coming face to face with Schanke, giving off a "deer in the headlights" type air.

"How much did you hear?" he all but growled.

"Urm... I..." he trailed off, apparently looking for the right answer. "Nothing. I heard nothing," he replied finally, nodding.

Nick rolled his eyes, putting his half curled fist to his mouth. "Why did you follow me?"

"Nick, I'm your partner, remember? We've got a case to work on and you didn't say what you were doing so I just..."

Nick shook his head. He could hypnotise him into forgetting, but with how that had been working lately it was dangerous. He'd forget for a while and then the memory would be back.

"Nick... who was that guy?"

Nick frowned deeply. "I'm not talking about it."

"Yeah, Nick, but... wasn't that the witness?"

After a minute, Nick nodded.

"Not getting into your personal life, because I hope I didn't hear what I... may have heard. But, do you know him?"

"I'm not talking about it," Nick flatly insisted.

"Nick, buddy, I hear you, but I just want to know because it's important: do you know the witness? In _any_ capacity? That's all I want to know. Trust me."

Nick turned, eyes averted from his partner. "Yes."

Schanke frowned. "Might be a problem. Testimonies are often questioned if--"

"Wait, he's testifying?"

Schanke laughed. "Nick, he's a witness. Besides him and..." he turned to the window where IA was still subject to the demure Zuhayr's prattling, "that, there is only you and the witness. And those will be seen as slanted, too."

"Yeah," Nick agreed, the frown not leaving his face. He wanted to pry, wanted to know exactly how much Schanke had heard, but it wasn't worth talking about it. He turned back and looked at Zuhayr.

"I can see why you did it," Schanke replied. "I mean, look at the guy. He looks kinda... small. You know, like one of those kids that gets bullied on the school yard. That's why you did it, right?"

"What? Yeah, yeah I guess so. He looked like he was in trouble, and I went overboard."

"That's your story and you're sticking to it... right?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because, Nick... there have been rumours."

"I heard about the press."

"Not just the press, Nick. You've got the station weirded out, and those activists types are pressing this as a hate crime."

"A hate crime?" They wouldn't actually... would they?

"You know... against... gays." Schanke did his typical dance around the subject bounce of his head.

"That's ridiculous."

"That's what I've been saying. Whenever anyone tried to say anything I told them Nick's a solid guy. He's never based anything on what people looked like or did. I mean, I've never really met anyone more... accepting, I guess."

Nick frowned. People were talking. He hated rumours.

"I mean... did you beat him because he was..." Schanke trailed off, letting his hands help finish his sentence, "you know?"

Nick shook his head and then looked up suddenly. "You mean, you didn't hear anything."

Schanke made a face Nick had only seen him make once--when he'd bit into something that had way too much vinegar, even for his tastes. "Nick," he whined. "Don't tell me..." Schanke stopped his sentence, deciding to try a new approach. "I know I'm going to regret asking this but..." the "ew" face had been replaced with the "dance around the subject" face, "does 'catamite' mean what I think it does?"

Nick's smile deepened to a frown, bordering on anger. "Look it up in a dictionary," he muttered.

"Nick, wait, Nick!" Schanke followed after him. "Nick, look, I'm sorry! Come on, I didn't mean--Nick! Wait up!"

* * *

Though they'd conversed about the case, an awkward silence kept falling between Nick and Schanke that refused to budge. They were driving around rather aimlessly, Nick too perturbed to have a destination and Schanke too off put to suggest one. The police scanner was relatively dead, leaving them to scout leads and otherwise preserve the peace. The crushing lack of noise got to Nick, being his main reason for leaning over and flipping on the radio. 

"...now, and I am going to read you all a passage tonight," came LaCroix's voice. "It's clichéd and past its prime, but it's a favourite of... my favourite listener. It's poetry time, and I now subject you to an unfortunately popular work, known as the Raven, written by a man whom, at the age of twenty four, married his thirteen year-old cousin," he said with an odd bit of something too close to glee for Nick's comfort.

"Once upon a midnight dreary," he began again, "while I pondered, weak and weary..."

LaCroix hated that poem. Nick knew that, and for a span of a few years he assumed that was merely because Nick had liked it. That was, of course, until he realised it was more accurate to say that LaCroix didn't like it _anymore_. After Nick had wandered around reciting it, he didn't exactly blame him for that. It was relaxing to hear it again after so long, especially from his voice.

"Schanke?" he asked, over LaCroix's smooth voice and turning to his partner.

"Nick," he replied.

"I'm... sorry," he finished finally. "I... I've been cold," he admitted, "and I shouldn't take it out on you."

Schanke made an apologetic face. "It's been an odd few days, Nick. Everyone gets it once in a while."

"Except for Teflon Don, right?" Nick asked with a smirk.

"Exactly."

Nick smiled at him before returning his complete attention to the road. "Don't even think about it," he said as he felt and heard, rather than saw, Schanke's finger reach for the radio off button. "I like that poem."

"...Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before...."

* * *

_1971; Vietnam, The Refuge in Bin Loc_

_Nick sat in a corner, separate from the rest in their shelter from the sun. LaCroix watched him from the other side of the room, worried. He knew how Nicholas responded to amassed human tragedies, and was well aware that vampires were just as susceptible to breaking as humans. And his Nicholas... he was always concerned that one day it might just all be too much for his rather sensitive son._

_He frowned. It wasn't worth worrying over. Nicholas would get over it, as he always did. It had been a few days since the massacre, and Nicholas had gone out and immunized more children and other such activities that helped calm his spirit. He looked a little better, but in this war-time enviroment, he hardly expected his son to show his true spirit. He knew Nicholas was in pain, and he didn't need a mental bond to know that._

_"...a glass?" came a question from behind._

_"Hmm?" he asked, spinning around._

_A young officer stood there, one of the many who had come for the feeding grounds that all wars boasted for their kind. "We took some bottles from our store. You like a glass, sir?"_

_LaCroix managed a faint smile and nod. It was definitely a good idea. Even vampires had hard times in war. "And one for Nicholas as well."_

_He stood still, as he had before, watching his son until the other man returned with the two goblets filled with blood cut with whatever alcohol had been available. With the cups he walked over to Nicholas, squatting beside him._

_"Drink," he commanded._

_"I'm not hungry--"_

_"I shall not tell you again."_

_Nick turned to LaCroix, the empty, unresponsive pupils alarming. He did, however, take the goblet and drink every last drop with abandon._

_LaCroix dropped to a seated position, finishing half his own drink. Nicholas hadn't eaten in days, which wasn't alarming as much, except that LaCroix would not see it continue. "That poem you like," he said simply._

_Nicholas turned to him, a slight confusion in his eyes. "Which one?"_

_"The Raven. By Poe."_

_"What about it?"_

_"How much of it do you remember?" LaCroix cast a weary glance over to the others about the chamber. No one was close by, and, if they knew what was good for them, no one would risk coming near._

_Nick allowed a smile, almost a bitter one, to come to his face. "It's been a long time."_

_"So? You've an excellent memory, Nicholas, recite to me that which you remember."_

_Nick frowned momentarily, but gave into the activity. "Once apon a midnight dreary," he began, continuing through the first stanza without fault. LaCroix placed a hand in his hair, moving it slowly in his ages-old technique of calming one through simple touch._

_"...And each separate dying ember... and... I'm not sure what's next. I remember pieces here and there but not--"_

_"And each separate dying ember, wrought its ghost upon the floor," LaCroix finished quietly, again glancing over his shoulder to be sure they were still in private. He knew private was a loose term given that he was in a small confinement with others that had just as superb hearing as he, but he cherished any privacy none-the-less._

_Nick smiled, sincerely this time. "I've always loved the sentiment... the _idea_ of that line. Odd that I'd forget it."_

_For a fleeting moment LaCroix heard a younger Nicholas, one filled with passion and novelty of arts and notions. It was refreshing to hear that, to hear from a little piece of a Nicholas who lived and breathed any scrap of poetry he could lay his hands on._

_"Can you remember what comes after that?"_

_He paused a moment before resuming. "Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had tried to borrow," he continued._

_"...And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor; Shall be lifted -- nevermore." Nicholas finished, with minimal prompting. "But you always hated that poem."_

_"I never said I hated it, Nicholas. It was just... tawdry for my tastes. Interestingly morbid, yes, I like the continued thoughts and effective repetition, but, on the whole, it tried too hard. The type of poem you read once and absorb, and pick up again eventually to ponder how your thoughts have changed on the subject." LaCroix fiddled absently with the cup still in his hands. "Hardly one for the favourites' shelf... though you seem to still hold it close."_

_"There's an emotion it sparks--it's beyond that of its meter or its rhyme. I like what it provokes."_

_LaCroix smiled genuinely and turned to face his son. "Provocation is never to be overlooked." He laughed to himself, and then stopped. He felt odd--and then he rolled his eyes. The rum they'd used to preserve the blood was getting to him. Not much, thankfully, but enough so that he felt it._

_Nicholas didn't seem to mind his odd behaviour, or even notice. At first LaCroix suspected it was having similar effects on him, however after an assessment of his slow breathing and peaceful look, he knew he was too relaxed to care. LaCroix physically felt the altering affects of the drink seemingly disappear, as though he were willing them away. But he knew better than to be complacent. He stood up, telling Nicholas he'd be back shortly. He went over to the small cot he kept for himself and took the blanket. Before returning to him he checked the little indicator that told them how much sunlight was still currently outside without having to lift the door. An ingenious device developed by one of the others. It was later afternoon, with a few daylight hours left._

_He returned to Nicholas, who was still stretched out and relaxed in the corner. He lay beside him, keeping the blanket at hand. Nicholas's eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. LaCroix laid a hand on his arm, stroking it gently. Nicholas's eyes opened slowly, and he slowly moved them to focus on LaCroix. "Thank you."_

_LaCroix turned on his side, to completely face Nicholas. "Your company is all the thanks I request, and your gratitude is highly appreciated," he replied._

_Nicholas raised a hand, touching his father's face. "I love... I like it when..." Nicholas looked away, saying nothing further. His fingers still gently rested upon LaCroix's cheek. LaCroix grabbed his wrist firmly but not aggressively, causing Nicholas to look back at him._

_"I... like you here as well, _mon petit_," LaCroix leaned in closer, bare inches from Nicholas's mouth. "_Mon amant

_Nicholas smiled, looking almost frightened as he swallowed quickly. "LaCroix," he started, "I--"_

_He didn't finish the sentence, as LaCroix closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to his son's mouth. He returned the kiss, likewise rolling on his side._

_Nicholas broke the kiss, only for a minute. He whispered something barely intelligible, and, despite the alcohol and rush of the situation, LaCroix could have sworn he'd heard those words he'd never dreamt he'd ever hear from him:_"I love you."

* * *

_1995; Toronto_

"...Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken..."

LaCroix's voice filled his ears as they drove along, sparking memories of many different times. He was avoiding Schanke, which he felt bad doing, but he had to hear LaCroix finish that poem.

The Night Crawler was reading it for _him_, after all.

* * *

After they had returned to the precinct, Schanke sat at his desk. When he was sure Nick wasn't close by, he pulled out his little paperback dictionary to solve his personal sixty-four thousand dollar question of the day. 

Cataclysm, catacomb, catalectic, catalogue, catamaran, catamount... damn, not here. He frowned, putting the book on his desk. Stupid, cheap knock-off of a dictionary. He got up, walking over to one of the bookkeepers' desk, knowing he'd seen a nice dictionary in her desk somewhere. He sat in her seat, quickly locating the larger, hardcover book.

Catamaran... catamite. Here. If he didn't know it, and it wasn't in his dictionary (despite its size) it obviously wasn't a widely used word, so he didn't berate himself for not knowing it.

**Catamite** 'kæté,mït   
_Noun,_ a boy kept for homosexual purposes   
From Latin Catamitus, variant of Ganymedes

Ouch. He really didn't berate himself for not knowing that word. He didn't like knowing about it--being as it was private and admittedly not his preferred realm of thought--but it gave him the assurance that Nick most obviously hadn't done what he did as some hate crime. It made him breathe more easily. That aside, he put the dictionary away, left her desk, and (if he had his way) would never think about it again.

* * *

Part Three 

* * *

With the court date set, Nick wandered into Nat's building, needing advice and favours. He hated only coming by when he needed something... he made a mental note to get her something or take her to dinner some time soon. 

"Nat?"

Nat looked up from her rather thorough examination of a tattoo on a particularly not well-perserved corpse. Probably a Jane Doe, and Nick was thankful the rest of the body was covered. "Heya, Nick."

"I can come back..."

"No, it's fine. What's up?"

"Whose case is that?"

"Not yours," she answered flatly. "You're not the only homicide detective in the area." She thought a moment. "Even though you try to make it sound like that. From another precinct. There wasn't anyone available to do this, so I got slated the lovely job of trying to figure out who she is. Now, I doubt you came here to discuss the particulars of that."

Nick smiled. "Hardly." He looked at his feet momentarily, trying to find a good way to start his next question. "Nat, how... much do you know about what happened?"

"I'm assuming you mean with your little _incident_ a few nights ago."

"Yeah."

She shrugged. "Just the extent of his injuries, that you did it...."

"You mean, there haven't been rumours here?"

"Nick, rumours require human contact, _live_ human contact. I'm here, I do my errands, I go home. Besides an orderly or nurse or intern, I don't see many people around here."

"And you haven't turned on your television?"

Nat looked up at him. "Television? They mentioned this on television?"

Nick frowned. "Unfortunately."

"That's not good."

"No."

"So... why would something so small make the news? I mean, you shouldn't have done it but it wasn't exactly that big a deal warranting the six o'clock news."

"They're... it's being investigated as a hate crime."

"A hate crime? Why? Because you're a cop?"

"Because the victim is gay."

Nat looked at him. "That's ridiculous."

"Yeah, I mean, I know I shouldn't have, but I didn't do it because of that. I mean, I did it because he was... trapping his... companion or partner or boyfriend or whatever word they're using now." Nick thought to himself, _husband was so much more... eloquent._

"Wouldn't that be the opposite? You sympathised with someone who was gay and went after who was hurting them?"

"The rumour mill doesn't often stop to get its facts straight, Nat."

"And they're pressing it as a hate crime?"

"As I have been informed by my lawyer and Cohen."

Natalie shook her head. "That is the stupidest thing I've heard--If you'd been waiting for him outside a club and battered them both, maybe, but.... This happened by the Raven, right?"

"Yeah... how'd you know?"

"I knew it was a club, what other club do you frequent?"

"True."

"It shouldn't be too hard to take it down from hate crime," she said, returning to the examination. "Almost everyone you know will vouch that you're a guy who wouldn't hurt someone for that."

"And I have a favour to ask of you."

"If you want to borrow my car, it doesn't have that much trunk space."

"No, I want you to borrow mine."

"How so?"

"When this goes to court, it'll be eleven o'clock in the morning, and then there will be more court dates after that."

"So you need to be driven."

"Me and... two others."

"Two others?"

"The victim's boyfriend is one of us. He's testifying."

"And?"

"LaCroix. He saw it happen, he knew them from the club and he's the one who stopped me."

She didn't look pleased at the mention of LaCroix, but there wasn't a way around it. "So I need to make three trips playing ferry to vampires on trial?" she said.

"Two. Zuhayr--the other of us--and I can fit in the trunk together."

Nat's eyebrows raised. "Tested that one out, did you?"

"No. He's pretty small. Trust me, it should be fine."

Nat still laughed at the prospect. "Are you sure it's not like that?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Well, consider me your chauffeur. LaCroix lives where?"

"At the club, now."

"And... that Zu person?"

"He's... at the club too."

"This is really getting sordid."

"It's not like that."

"Then why did you hesitate?"

"Because I knew you'd think it was like that."

"Well, it certainly makes it easier to get them. If it's not _like that_, then why is he at the club?" she asked, requiring further explanation.

"He'd been trying to break up with the victim for some time. Now that he's free of him, he needs some where to stay," Nick replied. He knew it wasn't the full story, and he hated lying, so he continued. "Actually, that's not... accurate. He likes to be... gainfully employed, you could say. He's working at the club." Still not the whole story, but he wasn't about to tell Nat that Zuhayr was trying to get LaCroix as his new "master". It wasn't a subject he really wanted to talk about.

"Bartender? Waiter?"

"Yes, but... primarily he's a dancer."

"And now he's working at the club, because you beat up his boyfriend outside of the club... Hmm... I smell a conspiracy," she said sarcastically.

"You found me out." Nick sighed dramatically. "There are just so few male vampire strippers that now you have to beat up their boyfriends to get them to work where you want them."

"I'm just curious to see how all this will turn out. I can't see them getting away with hate crime, but... could this lead to jail time?"

"If I was convicted of committing a hate crime, yes. Otherwise, it's just a cop who went to far to help someone, which is a fine and so many months with probation."

"That's not too bad, I suppose. Jail time is the last thing you need."

"My thoughts exactly."

* * *

Nick entered the Raven, glancing around to find Zuhayr. He wasn't up dancing, he wasn't wandering around serving drinks... ah, behind the bar, distributing them. He walked over to talk to him, knowing he shouldn't because of the charges, but he felt he had to talk to Zuhayr. He wasn't sure why... closure, of a sort, he supposed. 

"Hello, Nicholas... or do you prefer Nick? LaCroix always calls you Nicholas."

"Nick is fine," he replied.

"What's your pleasure?" he asked, sultry and helpful. "Could I interest you in a house special?"

"I... I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself."

"Could I ask you a question?"

Zuhayr finished pouring a house special for another guest, and one for himself. "Zuhayr Tarique Bulsara, here at your service."

"Why did you get involved with that guy in the first place?"

"Michael? Well, he was... he wanted me."

Nick's eyebrows rose. "You went with him because he wanted you. That's it?"

"It's... I knew he wanted me because he proved it. He took me into his home and took care of me. He lavished me with presents, he had his wits about him... why does anyone go with anyone?"

"But then why wouldn't he let you leave?"

"He thought he owned me. They all do. Of course, some of them did."

"What do you mean?" Nick asked, puzzled.

Zuhayr left to fix some drinks before returning to Nick. "I mean that I have been owned, Nick. Long time ago, but it happened."

"Before you were brought over?"

"And after."

"After? Surely as one of us you could have escaped any master?"

"Even one who brought me over?"

"Point. So, he bought you, then brought you over."

"He waited a few years. He wanted to be sure I was the one he wanted to spend the effort on. But that was a long time ago."

"But you did eventually free yourself from him?"

Zuhayr rolled his eyes. "Nick, why do you want to be so sure that I'm free?"

"Because I believe everyone should be able to make their own choices."

"Even as a slave, I made my own choices. Take it from someone who knows, Nick, freedom is extraordinarily relative."

"Did you free yourself from him?"

"No."

"So is he still your master?"

"No, again. He was killed, about two centuries after he brought me over. The Enforcers they're called now. My master was killing and not slashing any throats. He did it to perpetuate fear. The Enforcers didn't take kindly to that and came to put a big toothpick in his heart and then had a barbeque with his body afterwards." His tone and smile were disturbing.

"Did you help them kill him?"

"No."

"And you were happy he was dead?"

"I never had any complaints about the way he treated me. I'll admit, not being able to come and go of my own accord is stifling, but when I finally had my freedom, it wasn't anything like I'd thought it be. I had to take care of myself--something I had never had to do before."

"Is that why you took a new master?"

Zuhayr turned away. "I no longer belong to anyone," he said, with an odd mixture of confidence, irony and sorrow.

"I'm... sorry," Nick said, "I won't bring it up again."

The dancer turned to him, staring him down with an intensely cold look. "Good."

* * *

Nick left the bar, wandering over to LaCroix's recording booth. The club DJ still sat in the accompanying booth, and LaCroix's chair was empty, bereft of the Night Crawler. He checked his watch--it would still be an hour or so before His Creepiness (as he'd been affectionately dubbed by the more mortal portion of the Raven's regulars) took to the airwaves. Nick walked past the back rooms, taking the eerie hallway that lead to LaCroix's rooms. 

"You can't go back th--oh, sorry, Nick. Didn't realise it was you," said Albrecht, who was, for lack of a better description, the security guard.

He reached the door to LaCroix's apartment, raising his hand to knock--

"Come in, Nicholas."

He entered, giving a quick glance about the familiar room. LaCroix had changed it only slightly from Janette's decor. "LaCroix... how temporary is your taking over for Janette?"

LaCroix was standing in the middle of room. He smiled faintly. "I was wondering when you were going to ask that."

Nick approached LaCroix suddenly, gripping his arm. "She left, without a word?"

"She it wanted it that way." LaCroix pulled him closer and added sternly, "Don't go after her."

"Why did she leave?"

"It was her time to leave, Nicholas. You know how it is." LaCroix looked around and put his glass on a table. "She told me not to tell you until she'd gone, sold me the club for a song.... We will all meet again, as it always is."

Nick looked away from him, frustrated. He wouldn't go after Janette--he couldn't--but... it felt like it always did, being separated from loved ones and things.

"But you already knew she left, Nicholas. Don't tell yourself that you didn't." LaCroix walked away, moving to sit on the dark sofa by the fireplace. "Come, sit with me," he said, turned away.

Nick walked over slowly to him, seating himself nearby. "You read the Raven on your show...."

"Ah, so you heard. I'm rather glad. It makes doing so all the more worthwhile."

"Thank you."

LaCroix smiled in reply, and then quickly looked down to his glass.

"Natalie agreed to drive everyone to the courthouse. You'll have to suffer the indignity of the trunk--"

"Better that than the sun, Nicholas."

"Yes."

"A drink?" he asked, reaching over and holding up the wine bottle.

Nick thought about it for a minute. "All right."

LaCroix took his own glass, mostly emptied, and filled it, passing it over to him. Nick drank it all, then looked over to LaCroix, silently begging for more. LaCroix smiled, passing the bottle to him. "It's nice to see you eating again," he commented lightly.

Nick looked up from the glass. LaCroix sat, a pleasant expression on his face, and his hands folded neatly on his lap. He wasn't sure exactly why, but his earlier sexual need hit him square in this face, so much so that he immediately looked away and swallowed hard. "Here," he said, handing the bottle back to LaCroix.

The elder vampire took it, replacing it back on the table behind him. "Would you like me to read to you again?"

Nick looked up, his breathing returning to normal. "No. Not right now."

"Very well."

He looked at the fireplace, feeling unable to make any sort of eye contact with LaCroix. It took all the concentration he had to avoid thinking about..._ that_. It would be so simple just to turn and... but he wouldn't. Of course LaCroix knew how he felt, how could he not? Nick also knew that the longer he sat there, silent and deep in thought, the easier it would be for him to give in to that.

"About Zuhayr," Nick began suddenly, desperate for the topic change.

"What about him?" LaCroix replied, blankly.

"How old is he? Surely he'd be able to take care of himself, by now."

"Zuhayr, known to many as 'the boy' is, by estimation and his stories, twelve hundred years old--approximately, of course."

Nick turned suddenly. "Twelve hundred? That would make him..."

"Older than you. And he, like you, struggles not to be what he is."

"He is no longer a slave, LaCroix."

"So you talked to him. Wonderful. You're right, Nicholas, he's not a slave. And because of that he's depressed, wandering, uncertain, afraid and alone." LaCroix smirked bitterly. "But he is free."

"Why should it be so? He's fought for his freedom, now he has it--"

"_You_ fought for his freedom, Nicholas. And that does make all the difference. He needs someone to tell him what to do, he needs someone to do everything for him. It's really that simple."

"After twelve hundred years he must have learned...."

"Pray tell, Nicholas, what did he learn? What would twelve hundred years on the wrong end of slavery teach anyone?"

Nicholas turned away, frowning in understanding. "How to be the perfect slave."

"He's no more a slave than anyone else who depends heavily on a person, who in turn relies heavily on him. What was once slavery to him is now dependency." LaCroix leaned back, crossing his legs and relaxing his limbs with a sigh. "He needs someone--without that he will not survive, because he will not wish to."

"How can anyone do that to another person? Put them through something so long that they learn to deal with only that?"

"We all came from families; we all form new families. Zuhayr is a wonderful and clear example that we are all destined to be what we started out as. We can change things, create things for ourselves, but we cannot change who we are or what we need."

Nick frowned. Zuhayr was what he was, just as Nick was. "You offered him employment."

"On the contrary. He came to me in his rather practiced and sultry fashion, blatantly stated all his talents applicable to working here and requested it. Did you know he's a rather talented masseur?"

Nick gave a little laugh. "Is he," he said, not at all a question.

"Very talented. Not surprising of course, it's something we all should take advantage of--"

"Of him?"

"Of our centuries to practice any craft. But then, taking advantage of him isn't a bad idea either."

Nick turned on him quickly. "Did you?" he asked sternly.

"Kiss and tell, Nicholas? You would dearly like to know, wouldn't you? Why is that? Jealous?"

"No," responded quickly and flatly.

"If you say so."

"Did you?"

"If you really must know, no, Nicholas, I did not. That does not of course preclude that I never will, of course."

"Did he explain his centuries of practice in that area?" Nick asked with a biting tone.

"Catamite or not, anyone who's lived that long has to know something, Nicholas."

"Is that why you hired him? So you could--"

"Please, spare me, child. He's quite capable of taking care of himself in the immediate sense. If I wanted him, I could have him, but have I taught you nothing of greed and gluttony? I do not believe in rampant excess. I don't know why you're so concerned with this or bitterly upset about something I haven't done..." LaCroix stopped, pointing his fingers to his lips. "Or, is it that I do know?"

Nick turned away quickly, lest LaCroix see his guilty expression. A moot point, however, as he could not hide his response.

LaCroix got from where he sat, seating himself beside Nick. The younger was still turned away, exposing part of his neck. LaCroix placed a finger gently on the exposed skin there, making a small circle pattern. "It's been awhile, Nicholas, for both of us."

Nick remained turned away, not moving so as not to afford LaCroix any knowledge of any effects he had.

But LaCroix knew him too well. He placed his other hand on Nick's waist, firmly massaging the skin. "Nicholas," he purred softly into his ear. He removed his hand from Nick's neck, biting gently into his own finger before reaching it around Nick to offer the slight welling of blood, teasingly near his lips.

Nick took the finger into his mouth, lapping up the small amount of blood it offered. LaCroix craned his head forward, touching his tongue to Nick's neck, again tracing the small circles. Despite LaCroix's experience in affecting Nick, he still tried to stifle any response the elder caused. He, however, anticipated the bite, tensed and on edge until he felt LaCroix's teeth sink deep into his flesh. He grabbed LaCroix's wrist, still conveniently near his mouth, biting to allow the sweet flow into him.

Abruptly LaCroix stopped, withdrawing from Nick's neck and easing his wrist away. He moved slightly away, and was only slightly surprised when Nick spun around violently. Fangs extended and a perfect picture of feral desire, he pounced on LaCroix, pushing him back slightly and managing to get a kiss in. After only a minute, LaCroix broke it, pushing him away and standing.

"LaCroix--"

"Nicholas, I have a show to do." He checked his watch. "It's nearly time and besides," he leaned down to him, a hairsbreath away, "I wouldn't want to take advantage of you." With that, he walked away, shutting door as he left the room.

Nick sat back on the couch, trying to get his breathing back to a regular pace. He would have. He knew that he would have. If LaCroix hadn't left, and despite all of his denials and resolutions... he would have succumbed. He sat very still, trying to put his thoughts in order. Images and thoughts of LaCroix still floated around his mind, but he pushed them aside as his willpower returned. Checking to see that his fangs had receded, he stood, exiting himself.

* * *

Two nights later, Nick contemplated turning on his car radio. He had not listened to the Night Crawler the night before, deciding he needed a cooling off period. It occasionally worked in the police force, maybe it worked with addictions too. He again sat in his car, with Schanke, on their way to follow up on a lead--which translated to an hour drive to another city. After he and Schanke had discussed case particulars, Nick used the silence as his perfect opportunity to switch on the radio. At least where they were going he wouldn't lose the reception. 

"...for a time, gentle listeners. And I've puzzled as to what tonight's reading will be, until I happened upon something. It amused me to read it again, and I now read it all to you. It's an old and sensual bit of poetry from an... unlikely source."

Sensual. God, no, anything but that.

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine, because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth..."

Well, it wasn't that bad, Nick reasoned. Sensual, yes, maybe even erotic, but it didn't do much for him. Not _that_ much, anyway.

"...because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; _but_ mine own vineyard have I not kept...."

"God," Schanke said suddenly. "Who writes this stuff?"

"God," Nick replied in answer.

"What?"

"It's from the bible--the Song of Solomon."

"Oh."

"...Behold his bed, which is Solomon's; threescore valiant men are about it, of the valiant of Israel. They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night."

"Though," Nick said, "he's leaving some of it out."

"When did you become so knowledgeable about the bible? I thought you didn't like church."

"Studied it in school. Historical reference."

"Ah."

"...All shields of mighty men. Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies...."

"You're telling me that's from the bible," Schanke said, most obviously not convinced.

"Mmmhmm," Nick responded.

"...Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled..."

"If that's from the bible, he's translating liberally."

"When you're alone with a bible next, Schank, read the Song of Solomon for yourself."

"That is not from the bible... is it?"

"...My beloved is white and ruddy, his head is as the most fine gold... his eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh. His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend..."

"Now he's paraphrasing," Nick said, half to himself.

"That's from the bible? What does that have to do with God?"

Nick shrugged, enjoying the startled look on his partner's face.

"...I am my beloved's, and his desire is toward me. Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field..."

"Tell me this is supposed to be from a woman's perspective."

"That's the general opinion," Nick replied.

"...and that is the end of our quotation from the 'greatest book ever written', so it were," continued LaCroix. "But, gentle listeners, I have a few more selections to read to you tonight. This next one is obscure, and few have ever heard it before. I now add to that list. 'In a delicious moment without hurry that leads me, undulating, electric, incandescent and alive--the rich dew of dark eyes slips into my senses and I begin to strip my soul bare peeling petals one by one--"

LaCroix continued the poem, and, as he did so, Nick felt increasingly uncomfortable. It wasn't bad on the explicit scale, at least. He wondered where the poem was from and decided he'd never heard it before. Wasn't bad, wasn't great... and to Nick it was doubtless that LaCroix read it simply to affect him. He'd have to do better than that.

And Nick should have known better than to give LaCroix a challenge.

"Isn't it odd, that something society tries so vainly to 'protect' itself from is one of the most fundamental parts of _society itself?_ Gentle listeners, my children, sensuatity is not to be feared. Indeed, how can it be, when the mere thought of a hand running down one's cheek, slowly making its way past the chest, running chillingly past the stomach... is enough to start up our desires. Of course, it has to be the right person, doesn't it? We all have our perfect lover, the one we imagine as we cry out--no matter whom we are with. Who do you think about as you indulge yourself? Ask yourself why you are not with them--but for most the reason is too painful so we ignore it, continuing on with our fantasies. But, perhaps, you cannot even think about who it is you wish to be with. Who is it? Whose hands caress your cheeks? Whose lips run down your spine when you close your eyes and dream? Feel that dream now," he said, with a strength bordering on anger.

"Feel that dream, my children," LaCroix said into his microphone, bringing his fist down hard on the desk. "Why is it only a dream? Think. Did you spite your lover? Did you allow him a caress, only to turn him away? Did he see you silently plead for him--you would never dare ask--and reach out to you? Did he place his tongue on your neck, his hands on your waist? Did you not tease him with the constant desire you had for him and yet you would not give in to him? 

"Too long," he said simply, taking a drink and willing away at least some of the anger he felt. "You left him too long. And now he will not have you... so you dream about him, about him and pray. You felt trapped and ran from him--but that's not it at all, is it? Then why do you dream of him? Why do you tremble as he touches you? You think of him and your breathing quickens. And he'll take you back. He always will, for reasons, I'm sure, even he does not dare contemplate. Until then, you have your dreams. The memory of his voice thrills you, the _sound_ of his voice drives you mad with passion. In the night you wake, flushed with memory of his kiss, and you touch yourself--and where does that leave you? How satisfied are you from your own hand? You remember, running your hands along your chest, your neck, feeling all the while that it was he. You ran from him and he followed," LaCroix said, somber, "and now he's here when you need him and yet that appalls you. Frightens you. Love, it frightens us all, when in its purest depths. No one dares analyse what it truly does to us all."

"My child... the bitter irony. Dreams. Do not settle for them. Go. Come to your dream," came LaCroix's inviting purr over the car stereo. With every bit of resolve and courage he could muster, Nick leaned over and switched off the radio.

"He was getting to you, too? That's a record. I thought nothing creeps you out."

"Yeah," Nick replied absently.

"Well I guess that's what you get from listening to _Le Chenille de le Nuit_," Schanke said with mild theatrics.

Nick nearly wretched at the desecration of that which evolved from his native tongue... in a kind of, sort of way. He was thankful that Schanke succeeded in butchering the mood along with the beautiful language, however.

"It's French, mon ami. In Jenny's homework, it said that _chenille_ means crawler."

"It means caterpillar."

"Well, her book said it means crawler."

"Colloquial usage. But it still means caterpillar. And it's feminine."

"So?"

"_La chenille_," he corrected. "And _de la nuit_. If he ever translated his handle, I doubt he'd want to be known as the Night Caterpillar--especially concerning both nouns are feminine."

"Does that really matter?"

"It can. See, Schank, languages can be odd that way. Like, in French, all the vegetables are of feminine gender."

"So?"

"Except for the cucumber."

"Well, that's all very interesting, partner, but I don't see how my translation is any less valid than say someone who...."

"Actually speaks the language?"

"So, you speak French, too, Wonderboy? I'll have to remember that next time I want to move to Quebec."

* * *

Nick's shift didn't end soon enough, at least not in his opinion. After dropping Schanke off at the precinct (and narrowly avoiding impending paperwork of doom), Nick got back in his car and drove. He didn't think about where he was going, and he wasn't in the least surprised when he got there. 

He sat in his car, just outside the Raven. A faint memory of LaCroix reading the poem brought a resurgence of the need he felt for him. He entertained the memory, running fingers along his neck and his tongue along his extended canines. He looked at the club door with longing. Something still held him back, and he wasn't sure what. After a minute more of sitting idly in remembrance, he switched on the radio, knowing that LaCroix's show was either over or would soon be.

"...It took me by surprise," came the crooning that was definitely _not_ LaCroix, "I must say, when I found out yesterday. Don't you know that I heard it through the grapevine..."

He sat for a minute more before opening the door and entering the club. He walked past the patrons, noting one or two odd looks from a few of the 'in the know' crowd, but couldn't honestly care. He made a beeline for the recording booth, opening the door and admitting himself.

LaCroix stood with his back turned. By Nick's best guess, he was sorting his music selection for the following night's show.

"LaCroix," he addressed simply, standing in the doorway, panting.

"Nicholas," came the pert reply.

This was a game, Nick knew. He had no choice but to play it, and he would use the best weapon anyone ever had--surprise. He walked over to the desk where a partial glass of blood sat. He sat next to it on the desk, dipping in a finger and dabbing it liberally on his lips. He leaned slightly back and crossed his legs, trying for a sultry pose.

LaCroix turned at the lack of speech. He almost laughed at Nick's attempt at a languid pose... but he couldn't. Not when it was working. He stood in his place, admiring his son. Putting down what he was holding (not overly cautious as to where it landed) he stepped over to Nick, holding Nick's head firmly as he proceeded to lick every last drop from his lips. He felt Nicholas' tongue desperately reach his own, the spontaneity of the caress sending a electric chill through both of them.

He released his grasp forcefully, almost throwing Nick backwards. He stepped back from him, regarding him oddly for a moment. Nick regained his balance, and still sat on the desk, precariously near the edge and panting.

"I half-expected to see you tonight," LaCroix said quietly.

"_Half_-expected?" Nick asked.

LaCroix reached forward, placing his hand on Nick's shoulder and tracing it absently. "Even in your current..._state_, there remained the possiblity that your _morals_ would keep you away." He pulled his hand away and turned, resuming his earlier task of sorting.

"I..." Nick said. When LaCroix offered no response he stood, walking over to his father. "I'm here," he offered.

"And so you are," came the reply. LaCroix turned, placing his hand on Nick's cheek to lift his head and placed a kiss on his lips. Again Nick's tongue fought to reach his. Nick wrapped his arms around LaCroix, pulling him tightly.

LaCroix took another moment to look at his son. His desire was... delicious. Nick didn't stop when the kiss did, however, as he planted his hands firmly on LaCroix's chest, moving them downwards. He nuzzled into LaCroix's neck; his nose brushing along the collar, and with his teeth removed the sword pin at his throat. That removed, Nick proceeded to stroke LaCroix's exposed throat with his fingers and tongue alternately.

Nick was startled when LaCroix grabbed his arms and pushed him down to the desk. "But LaCroix--" he began.

"Here?" LaCroix replied. He looked up, to outside his broadcasting booth, where more than a few patrons had taken notice of the situation. He gave them an unamused look, causing them all to disperse. "It's obvious then, you want this," he said, returning attention to Nick, who nodded with enough force to snap his neck. "One question remains: your place or mine?" he asked with a smile. "Yours, perhaps? It's been my experience that women prefer to make love in their own beds--" LaCroix was genuinely surprised, and greatly amused, when Nick interrupted him with a slap to the face. He held Nick's hand tightly. "Men punch, Nicholas, _women_ slap."

Nick bared his fangs ceremoniously and hissed beautifully. "_Vampires_ bite," he said, very much a promise.

"Touché," LaCroix replied, releasing him. He placed a kiss on the edge of Nick's ear. "Run along to my room," he whispered. "I'll be there shortly."

Nick nodded, leaving as instructed.

* * *

Nick settled himself on LaCroix's bed, leaving off the lights and lighting a few candles. Most people thought it was romantic--to him it was just what he was used to. He took off his jacket and shoes, reached up to take off his shirt and stopped--no, he'd leave his shirt on. He'd rather LaCroix did that. 

He laid down on the pillows, relaxing himself. He hated overthinking things. He heard LaCroix as he approached, and turned his sight to the door as he waited.

"Nicholas," he greeted as he entered, walking over to the bed and sitting beside his son. Nick sat forward, wrapping his arms around LaCroix's neck and kissing him greedily. LaCroix pushed Nick back to the pillows, raking his teeth along Nick's cheek, then to his neck. He did not bite him; instead LaCroix quickly unfastened the buttons of Nick's shirt, his sensitive ears registering each pop and fuff. He pushed his hands inside Nick's shirt, causing the younger to shift underneath him. LaCroix dragged his teeth across Nick's chest, biting him gently when he reached his throat. He took only a little, using all his restraint to do so.

"LaCroix," Nick pleaded, his hands firmly on LaCroix's forearms. The elder responded by sitting upright, straddling Nick just above his waistline.

"Undress me," he commanded simply.

Nick edged himself up, re-assuming his earlier task and quickly freeing LaCroix of his shirt. Everything in him was telling him to harness all his strength and just take what he wanted--but he knew that he had to go by LaCroix's rules. Ultimately, he knew, that way was much better. As they again kissed, their quick and desperate actions soon saw them naked flesh to naked flesh.

"Please, LaCroix," Nick said, his teeth bared and his grip frightening. LaCroix nodded in response, moving away slightly to open his bedside drawer. He reached his hand inside and search around a moment before happening upon the small bottle he sought. Nick leaned forward, drawing his tongue across LaCroix's chest and kneading his fingers into the muscles of his back. He drew his legs up, wrapping them around LaCroix and constricting them, tightening his hold.

LaCroix put one of his fingers into Nick's mouth, his hands lathered in the oil contained in the jar. Nick lapped up the odd liquid... traces of alcohol, a familiar chemical and... blood. The metallic taste lingered, altered slightly by what it had been preserved and thickened in. It tasted like... spices. It smelt wonderful, the scent being worked up as LaCroix rubbed it on himself and then proceeded with understood warning to slide his fingers inside him.

"LaCroix," Nick moaned as his head shot back into the pillows. He felt the fingers slide easily inside; expanding and massaging the muscles with stunning experience that increased Nick's bloodlust a hundred fold. He placed his teeth on LaCroix's supporting wrist, poised to strike, but knowing he could not--it was forbidden. He would not bite until he was allowed, he knew, an almost Pavlovian response instilled in him. No matter how many years came to pass and no matter how their relationship changed, Nick knew that it would never be different.

LaCroix forced himself into Nick, causing his son to lessen the pressure his legs exerted on him. "Nicholas," he whispered almost too quiet to hear, "my beautiful creation, _mon amant._" He sped as Nick's breathing increased, experiencing equivalent pleasure from both his actions and Nick's responses, the current of which was dragging his nails forcefully into his back.

"LaCroix--"

"Call me father," he commanded.

"Father," Nick sighed. He gave a slight and delectable mewl as LaCroix continued. Unable to bite his wrist (or even his own) Nick instead licked LaCroix's supporting hand of the ointment that still exhibited trace amounts on the skin. Like a shark sensing even the slightest amount of blood, Nick was driven crazy with his inability to sate his lust. He writhed beneath his father, every touch, even the slightest, pressed him further past and into crazed lust.

"Father, please," he gasped, anticipating and aching for the inevitable bite. As LaCroix neared his peak, he leaned down, sheer anticipation flooding Nick's sense.

LaCroix's teeth brushed Nick's shoulder and neck. "Nicholas, my beautiful son, _mon mari_," he whispered harshly. His teeth pierced the flesh, setting off Nick to crane and twist his head until his teeth were similarly planted in LaCroix's neck.

It had been so long, and yet, even if it never happened again Nick would always remember this feeling, what it was like to tear not only into his father and lover's neck, but his life as well. Images were fleeting, some were clear; some were incomprehensible in their lack of context, but from the jumble and patchwork quilt of it all he could make out an overall picture. It painted the picture of a life, in senses and experiences. In the overwhelming lust and heat of the moment Nick came, his cry unheard as the blood rushed into his mouth and body.

LaCroix responded in kind, raising his teeth enough to vocalise his son's name. Their puncture and hold remained, and he too could read what he felt from Nicholas, only slightly more accurately than he. He could read the images and thought as well, but above all he concentrated on the emotions projected. In all his years he could never form a clearer picture from such a bond as when it was formed of the thought and baser emotion of a life.

Though they laid still, save for LaCroix's fingers running gently through Nicholas's tousled hair, their interchange of blood kept them at a peak. The physical sensations lingered, mixing now with a new emotional height. Nick was cautious, however. He, as LaCroix, was laying himself exposed to the other with whom he shared this exquisite connection. Even after all of the years together, he felt it was perilous to hold the bond too long. That was the symbiosis of it, he knew. LaCroix was the initiator, but he controlled the duration.

He drank from LaCroix, feeling the delicate intermingling of their blood and lives, the sensations then outweighing the vulnerability that he felt rising in his mind. He drank to a dizzying height until the depth of it all frightened him. Unwanting and seemingly unable to possibly expose himself to anything he could not cope with learning, he withdrew, falling back to the cushions as LaCroix similarly released him.

"Nicholas," LaCroix purred, tracing a finger along his son's chest. He smiled at him pleasantly, with something behind his eyes that his son could not fathom. It often happened--an odd and buried emotion brought up, pulled from some murky depths and pushed back before it could be analysed. LaCroix shifted his position, turning to lie beside Nick.

"Father," he replied, turning to him slowly, too sated and tired to move quickly.

"_Vous êtes revenu, mon mari beau,_" he said lazily, his fingers still tangled in Nick's hair.

Nick regarded him drowsily. "_Oui, mon amant._"

* * *

Part Four 

* * *

Nick and LaCroix roused a couple of hours later, LaCroix first to go around and replace the long dead candles. Nick watched sleepily, thinking about nothing in particular. 

"It's nearly sunrise," LaCroix stated, melting the bottom of a candle before firmly pressing it into its holder. "You'll have to spend the day."

Nick nodded, pulling the blanket back over him.

"If you're hungry, Nicholas," he continued, "there's a bottle tucked away under the night table."

"Which one?"

"Both, I believe."

Nick reached over, helping himself. "Are you planning on making many more changes to the club?" he asked after a few gulps.

"Oh... just a few," LaCroix said. "But I haven't really concerned myself with that just yet." He pressed the final candle in its place, then held its wick while he snipped off part of it. "Any particular reason you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Well, I'm not planning on stopping the selling of our esteemed house special in the near future," he said, returning to the bed. He sat down, running a hand through Nick's hair. They shared a quick kiss, LaCroix able to taste trace amounts of the blood that Nick had been drinking.

"What shall we do today, Nicholas? Since you're staying...."

Nick handed him the bottle, and asked that ages-old question that just never seems to go away, no matter how long a couple has been together. "I don't know. What do you want to do?"

* * *

Nick strolled into the precinct, having stopped by his loft only long enough to change and freshen up. He hadn't checked his messages--but that was more on purpose than not. The cold shoulder treatment he'd been getting recently seemed to have dimished, and he made his way to his desk. 

Schanke wasn't around; late again, as usual. He picked up the previous night's case report which he'd ducked out of doing. Schanke had started it, but he had ditched it too, it seemed. With a shrug, knowing he had some time, he put the report in the typewriter and began.

After a few minutes had passed, and Nick was thinking about how the rhythmic clicking was actually somewhat therapeutic, Schanke approached.

"Howdy partner--wait, what's that?"

"Case report. Just thought I'd type it up while--"

"Nick, are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I feel fine."

"You know what? I need a pen and a calendar. Nick Knight, doing paperwork. Not to mention, of his own free will. Wow."

"What can I say, Schank? Had some time."

Schanke sat at the desk across from his, still working diligently on his walnut crunch. Nick tried to ignore the smell. "So if I always leave the case report from the night before I'll come in and find it done? Kind of like those shoe guys--you know, that legend about those little dwarves that came and made the shoes for the shoe maker. What do you call a shoe maker again?"

"Cobbler. And they were elves."

"Yeah. Like that. You can be my elf."

Nick looked up from the typewriter and raised an eyebrow.

"Figuratively speaking, of course."

Nick shook his head and returned to the paper.

* * *

"So what's her name?" Schanke asked later in the car. 

"What?" Nick asked, puzzled. The Night Crawler talked in the background, and Nick had been paying him most his attention.

"You come in and do the paperwork, you've been smiling... not to mention you've been down right dreary the past week or so, not that I blame you. You've been strangely helpful, and, dare I say it--down right perky. So, the logical conclusion has been made. What's her name?" Schanke waited a moment. "Is it... Natalie?"

"Schank, it's--" Oh, no. Natalie. She was going to kill him. He'd forgotten to stop by; he'd been breaking their rules... he could already smell the garlic.

"I mean, I won't pry, if that's what you want."

"It's a long story... and it's not Natalie." Nick returned his attention to LaCroix.

"...of a sort. This next song is for one Michelle from Hamiliton, who is gracing the Toronto night life this week."

Eugh. Song dedications. It was the level below mostly call in shows. At least song dedications warranted more music, which Nick was in the mood for.

"...believed to be her favourite singer. Now we may all listen to the strains of 'Father Figure' by one Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou."

Schanke looked at the radio. "Is that George Michael's real name?"

"Yup."

"What is that?"

"Greek."

"I'll have to remember that. Myra loves him."

Nick tried not to think about how Schanke would attempt to pronounce that.

"He's not bad, personally, just not my style."

"Because he doesn't sing polka?"

"I happen to have varied musical taste, my friend."

"I liked Careless Whisper better," Nick replied simply.

Schanke shuddered. "There was a whole year that Myra listened to that song non-stop. At least she doesn't do that with all her music."

"It's never good to overdo anything, Schank."

"Tell me about it."

* * *

As 'Father Figure' came to an end, the conversation between Nick and Schanke ended, leaving LaCroix as the lone voice in the caddy. 

"...Next I'd like to play a little dedication of my own. We often don't express our base sentiments, usually at the expense of those close to us. The first time I heard this song it struck me. It expressed not only how we feel about those closest, but also how that feeling can destructively ravage and leave us for dead, wanting more. Love, usually likened to a rollercoaster in this sense, is so much more."

There was a slight pause and knocking noise, one that Nick knew usually heralded the taking out of the violin.

"It is complete in expression." Another pause. Nick was listening, but it felt more like a dream.

"I love you," LaCroix continued, "Nicholas."

The breaks on the caddy squealed as they sought desperately to comply with haste that Nick exerted on the pedal. He'd almost hit something; what, he wasn't sure. Feeling barely conscious he pulled over, laying his head on the steering wheel.

Schanke sat just a perfectly still, jilted by the words and by a seeming bout of whiplash. He knew what he heard, and... he knew what he'd heard in the days previous. He thought he'd hadn't, that he'd been mistaken, but... that didn't seem likely anymore. He remembered the tape of LaCroix's statement, and had thought he sounded eerily like the Night Crawler. Between that, this and the whole catamite thing... he decided not to think about it further.

Nick listened to the song intently, to occupy his mind. After the first verse, he knew that he'd heard the song, but could not place it. He tried to remember what song it was, but could only get little snippets of it floating through his mind--and not enough to identify the singer.

"..._Because you don't know, what it means to me_...."

Nick knew that he knew the song. He knew it was recent, well, recent in his terms. Soft ballad, he knew, though a lot of things sounded like that when played simply on the violin.

"..._You will remember, When this is blown over_...."

He _knew_ that song. He knew that he knew. And it was bothering him that he couldn't remember the title, or even the singer.

"..._I will be there at your side to remind you, how I still love you, I still love you_...."

The pitch of the last note was thrilling; the sound of the high and subtle vibrato never ceased to chill him.

"..._Back, hurry back, please bring it back home to me; because, you don't know, What it means to me_...."

He _knew_ that song, and the title was right there--

"Uh, Nick?" Schanke inquired hesitantly.

He looked up and turned sharply brought out of his tangent.

"We're going to be late."

Nick looked at the radio, then back at him. He nodded pertly, looking back to the road and drove off.

* * *

Nick sat in his loft, a relatively small box of CDs in front of him and about ten big boxes of LPs beside him. These were his favourites, and he prayed that LaCroix's song was here somewhere, because he didn't want to go through all the other boxes of his music, LPs, singles, sheet music and the rest. 

Mozart, no. More recent than that. Not Opera, not that old. He couldn't remember--he believed it either classical, rock, blues, jazz... something like that. That was the feeling he got from the memories. He hated abstract memories for that--never being able to find out anything concrete.

The song was sort of abstract. He tried to remember more words, as many as he could. With his luck it was probably one of those songs that didn't have the title clear as day in it.

"..._You've broken my heart and now you leave me_...."

LaCroix had played it once. On his show. Once before, also on the violin, Nick recalled. It had been aimed at him, but in a more subtle and biting way. He'd known the title then. He remembered taking only a verse to know what it was. LaCroix had said... rock. It was a rock song, but an unlikely rock song done in a classical style. He remembered really liking the song. If only he could remember something besides.

LaCroix liked things like that, musical writers going in an opera-blues style, pop artists doing well-done homages to music of the past... rock musicians doing classical music would have been one of those things.

Deciding on a new approach he pulled over the box of the more rock oriented albums. It was too... not recent to be on a CD, or at least, not one that he owned.

Aerosmith, no; Floyd, no; Supertramp, no... Styx, Hell, no... it had to be here. He went through the box, but nothing evoked any memory of that song. If he heard the artist's name, he'd know it. If he heard the song title, he'd know it.

He pulled over another box, in his odd sorting system he would have refered to it as the 'liked light pop rock and other such type music' box. Maybe it was here. Collins, no; the Police, no; Bob Seger? That was in the wrong box. Elton John? Wow, more than one of these were in the wrong box. He knew that that's what you come to expect when you move so often and insist upon taking--

Wait! Elton John, that was it. He stood up, walking over to his storage space of all the boxes that he kept with him. He located the box he was looking for and brought it over to his kitchen table. There weren't many albums in this box, and there was a reason for that. He knew it was here. He opened the lid, seeing the thirty or so LPs in the box. Most the other boxes had upwards of a hundred or more, but not this one. This was the 'favoured glam rock box.' Not too much there.

Elton John, more Elton John, Bowie, the Sweet--he smiled, remembering that he'd vaguely liked them--Slade, Max Webster, Roxy Music--and there it was. How could have been so stupid to have forgotten? Queen.

It was in one of their albums. He frowned. For once it wasn't a good thing to own all twenty or so of their albums and compilations. He picked up the first one, unable to tell what it was due to the plastic case it was kept in. He opened it, and remembered why it was the there. The Night at the Opera white vinyl. He sighed, remembering what it had taken to get that, and put it back in its case lest it get dust on its immaculate whiteness.

A Night at the Opera. The song was on a Night at the Opera. As an after thought, Nick took out the white vinyl album and put it on the table beside him. He wanted to frame it, and put it up somewhere. He flipped through the other albums, finding his other, less white, copy of the album. He flipped it over, reading its calligraphic and classical writing to find the song he was looking for.

Death on Two Legs... I'm In Love with My Car, he remembered that song and smirked at the hidden meaning... Sweet Lady... there it was! Love of my Life. LaCroix had played Love of my Life. He walked over to the record player he had dug out and hooked up. As he sat the record on the turntable, he heard the door.

Perfect. Just as he was about to brood over the song. He turned, greeting Natalie as she entered.

"Just thought I'd drop by before I went home," she said.

Nick left the record on the player, walking over to her.

"What're you up to?" She walked over to the area of the floor littered with the not yet replaced albums from the 'favoured rock albums' box. She picked up one of them. "You like the Styx?"

Nick shrugged. "In a pinch."

She put it back down and walked over to the kitchen counter where he stood. "You've been awfully quiet lately. Going through your record collection for any particular reason?"

"I just... I had a song stuck in my head, just trying to figure out what it was."

"And?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you figure out what song it is?"

"No," he replied awkwardly. "Probably something I thought I heard once, or something never recorded."

"Hey, a Queen album! I used to love them to death."

"Never been played. White vinyl. I was going to leave it in the slip cover, but I had to look at it." He carefully picked it up and pulled out the record slightly, to show its pristine and glossy white finish. "I was think of framing it," he said.

"And you make it like you have it so bad. I remember seeing one of those, and if I could have, I would have bought it. But I don't listen to them anymore."

"We all change," he said simply, putting the album in a cupboard so he'd remember it.

"Your hunting for a song explains the mess, so why the quietness?"

"Been... thinking lately, I guess."

"Any more news on the case? Your charges, I mean."

"I met with my lawyer again, but we've yet to discuss any particulars." Nick began putting the other glam albums in the box.

"You'll tell me if something happens, right?"

"I always do."

"Yeah." She picked up one of the albums. "Max Webster? God, I thought I was the only person who's heard of them."

"They weren't bad."

"Did you ever meet any of these people?"

"From Max Webster?"

"No, I mean, any of these people." She spread her hands, indicating all the albums strewn about the house.

"Max Webster, no. As for the rest," he shrugged. "I've met lots of people." He stopped, looking up at her. "I did meet David Bowie, though. Just for a hello, goodbye thing, though." He put the album he was holding in the box.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Most of the guys I knew would have been scared to own these albums."

He looked at her sceptically. "And how typical am I of the other men you know?"

"Not very. Though I did have another friend with a strong aversion to garlic."

Nick laughed, putting the box aside.

"Are you all right, Nick? You've been odd lately."

"I'm fine."

"If you say so," she responded, not wishing to push the issue. "I only came by to see how you were, so I'll push off, then," she said, grabbing her coat."

"Yeah."

She walked to the door.

"Nat?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

* * *

After she'd left, Nick retreated to his record player. He lifted the needle, but put it back and switched the record player off. He instead walked into a room where he kept some of his papers, and opened the drawer of his cabinet of sheet music. After flipping through the papers, he eventually found his copy of the music. 

That found, he walked over to his piano and sat, listening to each nuance of the song.

"..._Love of my life, don't leave me. You've taken my love you now desert me_...."

He knew full well where Freddie Mercury was coming from. Shame what happened to him.

"..._You will remember, when this is blown over, and everything's all by the way. When I grow older, I will be there, at your side to remind you; how I still love you, I still love you_...."

Strangely apt, for a mortal.

* * *

When the trial began, Nat picked up Nick and drove him the few blocks to the Raven. She knocked on the trunk (the sign that it wasn't in daylight) and Nick let himself out. 

"Thanks," he said, taking the keys from her. "I'll get Zuhayr." He opened the club's side door, then turned to address her. "When you come back to get LaCroix, this key opens this door," he said, holding up the specific key.

He entered the club, walking briskly to LaCroix's rooms. He'd previously forgotten to ask where Zuhayr was, but at least he could be sure LaCroix was awake.

"Come in Nicholas," he said, as he always did, before Nick could knock.

He opened the door, and was greeted with an... odd sight. LaCroix stood behind the seated Zuhayr, and was methodically brushing out Zuhayr's long, jet-black hair. Zuhayr looked up at him, and smiled pleasantly.

"Good morning, Nicholas," he said, perfection in manners.

"Is he ready, or is not up to some grooming standard?"

"Do you remember when I used to brush your hair, Nicholas?"

"We don't have that much time--"

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do," he replied quietly.

LaCroix stopped brushing, and put the brush on a nearby table. Zuhayr stood, dressed head to toe in trailing and trimmed black velvet. It was the first time Nick had seen him mostly clothed.

"You do realise we're going to be in a trunk," Nick commented. "And velvet is a lint hell."

"I know," he replied, walking over to the chair where another garment lay. He put it on, revealing it as a cloak that reached the floor. "And now we won't have a problem."

"Do be careful with him, Nicholas," LaCroix said, pouring himself a glass of blood as they left.

* * *

They got outside, both squinting at the quantity of light that escaped around the shadows and played hell with their eyes. 

"Are you two sure you'll fit in together?"

"Mostly," Nick replied.

With that, the younger of the pair climbed in his trunk, moving as far back as he could to allow Zuhayr as much room as possible. Zuhayr then got in, cloak wrapped tightly around him to avoid un-immaculating himself.

"You two comfy in there?" Nat asked before closing the trunk.

* * *

"This is odd," Zuhayr remarked, getting used to the travel accommodations. 

"What, never ridden in a trunk before?"

"No," Zuhayr replied. "And especially never with you."

"That sounded oddly like a pick up line," Nick responded.

"Funny, that."

"Don't even think about it."

Even in the dim light Nick could see Zuhayr's smile. "But I can always dream."

"Zuhayr--"

"Call me Zu."

"Zu, then, are you still only LaCroix's employee?"

"I am always so much more than an employee."

"I don't want you getting hurt--"

"I'm flattered, but I can take care of myself. Your father has--"

"He's not my father."

"Fine. LaCroix has given me a job, a place to stay and much more, and I would give him anything he asked. And if it's all that important to you, no, we haven't slept together. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"I don't want you hurt again."

"You can't make my decisions for me, you can't protect me--"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I won't get angry at you, hardly solves anything."

"I know what you mean. I know you mean well. Thank you for your concern. And, if it's any consolation, it's nice knowing there are still ones like you."

"What do you mean?"

"The kind that would see a bird with a broken wing and would stop to mend it, and care for it until it could be set free," he replied. "It's nice to see there are those among us who would."

"That means a lot to me."

"I'm glad, but always remember, only the bird can teach itself to fly again."

"Yeah, it's--ow!" Nick said, after banging his head after a particularly nasty bump.

"Sorry," they heard Natalie whisper under her breath.

* * *

Nick sat, in the middle of the courtroom, in the little island with a chair that the Canadian government had its accused be seated in. An odd little tactic, he thought, a little parallel from the days when accused had to defend themselves, and rarely succeeded. 

Zuhayr, in his lace and velvet racket, had been called up to the stand.

"Please state your name for the court."

"Zuhayr Tarique Bulsara."

Nick regarded him as he took his oath, noting the grace and poise that had been instilled in him. His lawyer had called Zuhayr up first, in a strategy Nick recognised. It was something of a sympathy ploy, to get it in the jury's mind early on that the victim was hurting someone. Though, it was usually used with women in abusive relationships. Nick wasn't sure how it would translate. A quick sweep of the jury had indicated a fair split between the genders, but it could still go either way. He sincerely doubted, though, that they could get him on the hate crime charge, the only charge he had pleaded not guilty to.

"Could you identify this man?" Nick's lawyer asked, holding up a picture of the victim.

"Michael Broughton."

"What is your relationship to this man?"

"He was my master."

Nick also wasn't sure how the jury would react to that.

"How so?"

"He... I was his. For a time I did what he wanted. But..."

"You played as though he owned you, like a house pet."

"Yes."

"And why did that change?"

"He acted like he owned me. That it wasn't a game."

"And how did you respond to this?"

"I wanted to leave."

"How did he react to that?"

"He said I was the most perfect _slave_. I didn't want to be a slave."

"What was your home relationship like, assuming you lived with him."

"I did live with him. At first it was a play, and I'd get him what he asked for, do the chores he asked for and other more... inimate things. But he got complacent with it, and started exerting more and more power and force."

"Did he beat you?"

"Objection," came the inevitable from the Crown prosecutor.

"Sustained," said the judge. "Please proceed with the case, Mr. Harper."

Nick's lawyer walked closer to Zuhayr. "Could you tell the court, in your own words, Mr. Bulsara, what happened on the night in question?"

"Starting from before we left the club?"

"Yes."

"We were in the Raven," Zuhayr began.

"Which is?"

"A nightclub. Kind of goth; kind of trendy... nice little place."

"Continue."

"Anyway, we were seated at a table, and I brought up that I was leaving him, not that it was the first time. This time was different, though."

"How so?"

"Well, while he was at work that day I packed my things and had them moved to my storage facility."

"Did he notice?"

"No, when he came home he quickly changed and instructed me to change and leave with him. He didn't really look around."

"So, when at the club, you informed you were leaving him, and that you had moved your things."

"Yes."

"What happened then?"

"He yanked my leash harshly and told me I wasn't going anywhere."

"He made you wear a leash?"

"Everytime we left the house, after he felt I was getting too 'uppity.'"

"Continue."

"I don't remember the exact words after that, but it was mainly him telling me all the 'wonderful' things he'd done for me and myself reminding him that I am a person, not an object to be owned. He slapped me, and I got up to leave, at first he pulled me back down, but I snapped the leash away from him and left."

"Did he follow you?"

"Yes. Around the time I got to the door, he'd caught up with me and was able to again grab the leash. We left the club, and he dragged me to the side alley."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"He said if I tried to leave he'd take me, whether I wanted it or not. He pushed me against a wall to emphasize his point. I told him to stay away from me, but he didn't move. He called me a bitch, and told me not to talk to him like that and slapped me. I pulled the leash back, as hard as I could until I had it, and he told me that I belonged to him."

"And you said?"

"I belong to no one. He tried to tell me he'd actually done some good for me, and I replied he'd done nothing for me. He told me I belonged to anyone who _takes_ me. And he meant it like that."

"Please clarify."

"He meant I belong to whomever had sex with me."

"Continue."

"He tried to kiss me, I pushed him back. I told him I wan't his, wasn't his plaything."

"Can you remember your exact words?"

"Does it really matter?"

"We need to establish what happened, exactly. Do you remember you exact words that night."

"Fine. I told him I wasn't his catamite."

"And then what happened?"

"He stepped closer, so that I was between him and the wall, and before he could do anything else, he was pulled away from me."

"By whom?"

"The defendant."

"No further questions."

* * *

The Crown thoroughly cross-examined Zuhayr, making sure the jury heard full well that Nick knew that Michael Broughton was gay. It made Nick roll his eyes more than a few times, but he tried to hide any reaction, lest anyone interpret it wrongly. Due to hate crime legislation, however, the Crown had only to prove that the defence knew the victim was of whichever oppressed group and that they had committed the crime, and then the burden of proof lay (unusually) on the defence, to prove that it was not a crime of hate. 

Nick sighed. They had their last resort, he hated it, but at least it would work. He hated worst-case scenarios.

* * *

Nick hated court. It was so long, labourious and boring. He supposed he deserved it, for what he'd done. In retrospect, pulling Michael away and offering Zuhayr shelter might have been the better course, but even then Michael would have been free to come after him, and who knows what Zuhayr would have done to him? In every scenario Nick entertained, Zuhayr still wound up in someone's clutches and Michael still lay dead or injured. He supposed it was better how it really had happened, at least he stopped beating Broughton _before_ he died. He doubted he would have continued to the point where Michael would have died, even if LaCroix hadn't been there. Zuhayr... Zuhayr might not have stopped. 

The doctor who treated Michael Broughton was now on the stand, stating his injuries and answering the lawyers' questions. Nick was glad to hear, at least, that he was recovering well and that he had been released sometime ago. Nothing was life-threatening, nothing damaging, just a broken nose that would require some cosmetic surgery, along with the broken ribs, dislocated jaw and multiple fractures to his left arm. Apparently, Nick had only hit him three times, once to his face, once to his chest and the third when he pulled his arm and threw him down. In his mind's eye it had seemed like more.

* * *

Nick felt his heart sink as LaCroix was called to take the stand. Not that LaCroix would do anything to hurt the case, far from it, but he wasn't sure how the jury would react to him. 

"Please state your name for the court."

"Lucien LaCroix."

Nick watched, faintly amused, as LaCroix put his hand on the bible and took the oath. It was strangely ironic, because they were all breaking it in slight degrees, only to hide what they were.

"What is your position at the Raven nightclub, Mr. LaCroix?"

"I am the owner and manager."

"And you were also in this position, on the night in question?"

"Yes."

"Had you encountered the victim or his partner in your club prior to this?"

"Yes."

"How often did they visit?"

"Occasionally. Not enough to put them on the regular patron list, but enough that I recognise them."

"Would you tell the court what happened, in your own words, on the night in question, starting when you first noticed them in the club."

"I was sitting by the bar, and I heard raised voices. As proprietor of the establishment, I paid them attention as they argued."

"Could you tell what they were saying?"

"No, only that they were taking very harshly."

Again, there was that little lie, the one they all had to make to hide themselves. Nick highly doubted that LaCroix had not heard every word the pair spoke. LaCroix's testimony continued, and the elder vampire skillfully avoided alluding to the fact that he knew Nick personally. At least Nick could be thankful that LaCroix was an expert with words.

* * *

With apprehension, Nick himself took the stand. There was no danger of self-incrimination, as Nick had already pleaded guilty to the assault. The only reason there was still a trial was to determine if it was a hate crime. He suppose he could thank them for that. Because they had pressed for the higher charge, it would be harder to prove, and he would escape with a lighter sentence because of it. 

Nick took the oath, and seated himself. He answered all his lawyer's questions, trying not to sound rehearsed--which was hard considering the amount of times he'd had to go over the events of that night. He was able, he felt, to defend himself against the allegations of the hate crime, and the earlier testimony of the woman from dispatch who took his call had helped his case. After all, someone who calls in after committing a crime isn't exactly the type who did it out of some bigoted hatred. He wondered, briefly, if anyone considered vampires feeding on humans a hate crime.

Then came the part that wasn't so good for his case: cross-examination.

* * *

"Nick, really, I can understand why you wouldn't want to--" 

"We are _not_ going to put him on the stand," Nick replied as his lawyer tried to convince him. "Not again."

"It's our last option, here. The Crown shredded you on that last one."

Nick sat down on his couch, reading the case report in front of him, not paying it any attention. "What about character witnesses?"

"Unless you have another partner or someone who will vouch that you have been involved in some kind of pro-gay activity, like say, a fund raiser, pride parade or single incident, there isn't anyone else. If we put anyone else up there just to say you're a good guy, we're going to get shredded by the Crown again."

"How much are you going to have him say?"

"Only what we need to."

"Good. This isn't exactly everyone's business. My friends and co-workers are in that audience--"

"I know, Mr. Knight. But it's better than jail."

"Barely."

* * *

Part Five 

* * *

Nick sat in his loft, with Natalie, mulling over the next day's trial continuation. 

"Have you figured out what you're going to do, yet?"

Nick nodded. "My lawyer and I decided."

"Well?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Nick, come on. "There's a lot you haven't been telling me lately. I'm going to find out to-morrow... can't I at least have the courtesy of knowing a little in advance?"

"Fine." Nick sat back, relaxing into the couch. "LaCroix is going to testify."

"That's your big plan? Your big secret? He already testified, why again?"

"He testified about the assault."

"And this time?"

"He'll be testifying... as to why it's not a hate crime."

* * *

"The defence calls Lucien LaCroix to the stand." 

"Objection," called the Crown, almost predictably. "He's already given his statement, he can't possibly have new information."

"Your Honour," Nick's lawyer addressed, "Mr. LaCroix testified about the night in question. The defense now wishes to question him on a different manner, but relating to the case."

"I'll allow it," the judge replied, "but it better be worth calling the witness a second time."

"Thank you, your Honour."

Nick watched in dread as LaCroix entered, taking the stand again. Nick rested his head against the back of his chair. He forced himself to relax. It wasn't that bad, really, once he thought about it. Though the thought that Natalie was present, as were Schanke, Cohen and a handful of his co-workers wasn't appealling. There were probably others there, but he really didn't want to think about it.

He watched as LaCroix retook the oath.

"Mr. LaCroix, what is your relationship to the defendant?"

Nick gave the confused Crown prosecutor a weary and amused glance. They were shooting down their own witness, but since case details had already been established with little discrepancy, it didn't really matter.

"He is a close friend."

"Do you believe him capable of beating someone because of a homosexual orientation?"

"Objection!"

Ugh. The Crown and its untimely and insatiable need to object.

"On what grounds?"

"We do not need to be subject to another character witness."

"On the contrary," Nick's lawyer stated. "This one is different. If I may be allowed to proceed?"

"Overruled. And this is your last character witness."

"Understood," the lawyer replied. He again approached LaCroix. "I'll repeat the question, do you believe Nicholas Knight capable of beating someone because of a homosexual orientation?"

"No," LaCroix answered simply.

"What is your basis for this belief? Simply because he never has before?"

"Hardly. Not after... my years of... _knowing_ him."

"Along that note, I hate to ask a personal question, Mr. LaCroix, but I'm sure you understand."

"Quite."

"Have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse with the defendant?"

Nick sighed. It wasn't so bad, after all, it was going it keep him out of jail--

"Yes."

He could feel the stares. As an after thought, he wondered how many of these people were actually surprised. Well-off bachelor, keeps to himself, open-minded... Hell, he was surprised no one had brought it up before.

"So, he wouldn't have cause to commit a hate crime, especially of this nature?"

"Rather the contrary. Nicholas felt that Zuhayr was being abused, and quite naturally went to his aide, just as he would do for anyone in that position. It's his nature."

"No further questions."

Nick was very surprised when the Crown stood and walked over to LaCroix. How, exactly, could you argue with that?

"Mr. LaCroix, you never mentioned earlier that you knew the defendant."

"That wasn't a question, but, assuming you meant it as one--it was never asked."

"And you never mentioned your... alleged affair with him either--"

"I wasn't aware it was the job of a witness, or a defendant, to provide a list of all their conquests."

"Of course not, but in this case wouldn't it have been more logical to bring it up earlier?"

"It is a personal matter, not a public discussion and it was planned to keep it that way for as long as possible."

"You two agreed this before the trial began?"

"I discussed it with Nicholas' lawyer. We agreed that it was a personal matter."

"Or perhaps you discussed it as a fabrication in case of--"

"Objection," Nick's lawyer stated firmly.

"Sustained. Unless you have some evidence of perjury?"

"Withdraw the question." The Crown prosecutor thought a moment. "How long have you been with the defendant?"

Nick sat up. Cross-examination was never good.

"Oh... at least a decade. But it seems like I've known him for centuries."

Humour. It was a choice weapon. No one questioned humour, usually.

"So you can't remember an exact date?"

"No. We were acquaintances first."

"How long have you been dating?"

"You assume we are dating."

"Are you?"

LaCroix thought before responding, "In manner of speaking. Though I'd classify it more as something along the lines of... intimate and close friends."

"No further questions."

Nick smiled inwardly. Ah, the cry of retreat from someone with a well used shovel.

* * *

Later on, Cohen called Nick into her office. 

"I'm sure you've heard of the press reports of this."

"Yes."

"Because you haven't been convicted, your name was kept out of the papers. I can't assure that it will stay out of them, but...."

"I know, and I appreciate it."

"I was lenient with you."

"I know. I appreciate that, too."

"The public wants you hung high for this, you know. These new 'hate-crime' legislations are bloodthirsty. I can understand the need for protecting minorties and groups but, well, this is ridiculous."

"I agree."

"Knight, I just wanted to tell you straight forward. If you are convicted of either and end up with jail time, we have no choice but to let you go, probably permanently."

"I understand." Nick swallowed. It wasn't likely he'd get jail time, but if he did, he'd have no choice but to move on. He didn't like the sound of that, but eight hundred years had at least taught him that. There always comes a time to leave.

"What does your lawyer think?"

"He's hopeful. After LaCroix's testimony, he hopes the jury will be... sufficiently persuaded."

"That's the other thing I wanted to talk about."

"Yes?"

"Details of the trial are accessible, including LaCroix's testimony."

"And?"

"Beyond that, there was several of the precinct in the audience. I haven't heard any rumours or repercussions, but that doesn't mean you won't."

Nick frowned. "That can't ever be stopped."

"I'll do what I can, but I can't tell people to stop talking."

"I know."

* * *

He soon found out the full extent to what the Captain had alluded to. As he and Schanke drove along in the caddy, the silence was broken by his partner's questions. 

"Nick, could I ask you a question?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"It's kind of personal."

"All right."

"The guys back in the squadroom have been talking, and you know me, I hate rumours, but... I have to ask, if I can."

"And...?"

"They've been saying... they think you're HIV positive. Now, I want to back you up and say you don't, but... I don't even know that."

"Now why would they arrive at that conclusion?"

"Well, after what happened in the courtroom, and you two are rather... well, peculiar, and you're both pale. I mean, you're a little medically odd, I'll admit, but... well, are you?"

He was almost mad at the accusation, because he hated rumours, but he knew better than to get mad at Schanke for inquiring as to whether he was healthy and trying to stand up for him. "No, I'm not, and neither is LaCroix."

"See, I thought so. I already told them you're not, so I guess I'll just keep saying that."

"Thanks."

* * *

It wasn't a bad trial, a mere headache compared to others he'd been involved in, but he was glad as it came to a close. As always the defense went first, a mixed blessing, as the Crown left the last impression. 

"...We are not here to prove Mr. Knight's orientation," Nick's lawyer continued, "as that is not in question, but the fact that both he and another have testified that he has before been intimate with one of his own gender, it seems that Mr. Knight had little cause to beat someone simply because he believed him to be homosexual. No, it is rather that he was a concerned person who wished to help, although he admittedly overstepped his allowed force in doing so...."

Nick silently prayed. The Crown was next, and he knew that this particular prosecutor was relentless. He didn't really listen to the closing statement, but did catch the redundant use of the word "alleged."

Nick craned his head around to the side, until he found where LaCroix sat. After a moment their eyes met, causing both to exchange looks.

It was a relief, like a breath of fresh air, when the jury was finally called out to make their decision.

Similarly, audience, lawyers and everyone else left the courtroom, meeting together in a side room.

"Hello, again, Nicholas."

Nick turned in the direction of LaCroix's voice. "Hi."

"In case this doesn't turn out," he began, "I can get you to Aristotle any time you need him."

Nick nodded, accepting that possibilty. "And they thought I wasn't a flight risk," he quipped.

* * *

From across the room, sipping coffee and eating a doughnut, Schanke observed the pair. They laughed over some shared joke, neither of them taking advantage of the free coffee. Granted, it was of the same bottom barrel as most free stuff, but it was free. LaCroix grabbed Nick's forearms, pulling him a little closer as he leaned in and whispered something in Nick's ear. Nick's reaction was a light smile with some other reluctant emotion. It was odd for Schanke, watching Nick interact on a personal level, removed from his co-workers. Sure, he was never cold with them, but it was odd watching it. No one ever thought about Nick as a guy with much on his hands other than his job, and Schanke could understand why he'd hide his personal life. 

At first he felt a little... put off that Nick hadn't told him, but Nick was a secretive guy. He watched as LaCroix let his arms go and they continued talking.

* * *

Later on, while the jury was still deliberating, Nat pulled Nick away from LaCroix to start up a conversation. 

"Nat, thanks again for the ride."

"Anytime, Nick."

There was silence between them, an awkward one.

"Look Nat, I don't want it like this--"

"Neither do I."

"I want to be able to talk to you, to not have to have these... silences."

"Nick, about what he said--"

"I wish I could have told everything long time ago."

"I know, I mean--why did you... sleep with him?"

"Nat, when you're with someone for eight hundred years, something is bound to happen."

"Granted. But, has this happened recently?"

Nick looked away, down at the floor.

"You want to be able to tell me everything, why is this different?"

"Because not many people know. I'm used to that."

"Has it happened recently?"

"Is that really important, Nat?"

"I'll take your evasions as a yes."

He didn't offer a response. He wanted to tell her, and tell her everything--but what would he say?

"I want to help you, Nick, but I can't if you... relapse," she said her last word as though it didn't make sense to her.

"It's a difficult situation, Nat. I can't...."

"It's always a difficult situation. As long as you still want my help and are willing to use it, it's there."

"Thank you. About everything--I don't know. I need to think about everything. Put it in some kind of perspective. But I do know that, no matter what, I want your friendship."

"That means something to me, Nick."

"I'm glad it does."

* * *

"Hey, Nicky boy! Come and have some coffee." 

"No thanks, Schank." Nick walked over to his partner by the snacks. "How've you been?"

"Good. Yourself?"

"Same."

In the silence, Nick could hear every chew of the current doughnut. He could only stand that for long.

"Look, Schank, about what... about everything that's been going on lately--"

"Hey, pal, I understand. Your business is your business."

"Yeah."

There was more silence.

Nick looked over to LaCroix in the corner, fastidiously keeping away from any sun and everyone else keeping fastidiously away from him.

"Hey, look, Schank, I'll catch you later, okay?"

"Sure thing."

Nick walked over to LaCroix's forlorn chair. "How are you surviving over here all by yourself?" he managed with some humour.

"Quite well, thank you, Nicholas. Where did that lawyer of yours go off to?"

"I honestly don't know." Nick sat down on the floor beside LaCroix's chair. "I'm sure he'll be back. And Zuhayr?"

"He was picked up earlier. I didn't feel he needed to be here."

"Are you taking him up on his offer?"

"Offer?"

"To be his new master?"

LaCroix gave an amused little laugh. "I think you'll find he takes orders from anyone whom he deems worthy of giving them. Master or no."

"I--"

"Yes, Nicholas. I will be sure that no harm comes to him."

"He can take care of himself, you know."

LaCroix looked at him intensely. "I'm glad to hear you say that."

* * *

Assembled back in the court, the jury prepared to read the verdict. 

"On the charge of assault, we find the defendant guilty."

Not surprising, as he did already plea guilty to that. But, because they were trying it under the new hate crime legislation, which had to be brought up again. And, if not found guilty of the other charge, he'd get a lighter sentence. Human psychology was a wonderful thing.

"On the count of committing a hate crime, we find the defendant, not guilty."

Perfect.

* * *

After the sentence, a fine and probation period, was passed, and the court was adjourned. Adjourned, in Nick's opinion, was a lovely word. He left the island with a chair, shaking his lawyer's hand, and then the hands of friends. 

"Nicholas."

"You have an odd habit of sneaking up on people," Nick's lawyer remarked.

"On the contrary. Nicholas knew that I was here."

Nick smirked. "Something like that."

LaCroix stepped closer to his son. "_C'est fantasique,_" he said with a sincere smile, and placed his hand under Nick's chin. "_Toutes mes félicitations, mon mari beau._" LaCroix lifted Nick's chin slightly, and leaned down to press a lingering kiss on his mouth.

Nick looked at his feet, momentarily speechless.

* * *

Part Six 

* * *

Natalie got out of the Cadillac, and made sure the trunk was in shade before going around to let its occupant out. The sun was out, though low in the sky. This would be the last time she'd do this, and she thought it funny to think she'd miss chauffering three vampires to the courthouse in the daytime. 

With her knock, the trunk opened. LaCroix emerged, getting to his feet and dusting himself off.

"You know," Nat began, "I think I'm going to miss this whole thing. The shuttling, the excitement...."

"Perhaps," LaCroix half-heartedly agreed, "however, I can easily say that I shall not miss Nicholas's trunk."

As LaCroix turned to enter the club, Natalie called for his attention.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"In the courtroom today... why did you... kiss Nick?"

He waited before responding. "As a congratulations, I suppose."

"To make him believe you love him?"

LaCroix was taken aback. He wasn't at all sure if that were a threat or a genuine inquiry. "My dear, I believe it best to consider it a reassurance."

"What about leading him on? To keep him attached to something he doesn't want."

"Does Nicholas ever know what he wants?"

"And that gives you the right to lead him on that you love him?" She nearly stopped herself--she couldn't believe the words coming out of her own mouth, and yet she heard them. "How do you explain the torment you've put him through and dare to--"

"How do I dare explain it?" he said with no less than a severe threat to his voice. "Pray tell, explain love to me, Doctor. Who defines that? All I will say is that if it's love, _truly_ love, than you cannot explain it."

Not allowing another word, LaCroix turned swiftly on his heel and entered the club.

* * *

"Nicholas," LaCroix asked, lying beside him, running a hand absently along Nick's side, "would you mind telling me why you were so... against my telling, and then suddenly so... less opposed?" 

"I had some time to think," Nick replied, meeting LaCroix's hand with his own.

"About?"

Nick regarded a candle lazily. "About... morality and society and age and wisdom and all those things."

"And what conclusion did you arrive at, Oh, Benevolent and Wise One?"

"That I was ashamed of something nebulous. It wasn't about gender, it wasn't about you it was... what everyone had been saying." Nick gripped LaCroix's hand, then released it, tracing the bones of his fingers. "And when I realised that... it became more a threat to my privacy."

LaCroix took Nick's hand, rubbing it gently. "And now that's it's all worked out I suppose you'll insist on returning to your mortal habits."

"You know me all too well, LaCroix."

* * *

Inevitably, the nighttime found him and Schanke cruising the Toronto nightlife. And again, in the disturbing trend of the past few weeks, there was a silence, broken only by the scanner and occasional bouts of the Night Crawler. This night, however, had neither. 

It wasn't good professionally, and it wasn't good for their friendship.

"Look, Schank," Nick said finally. "We have to talk."

* * *

_Fin_

* * *

(French Translations below)

* * *

_**French Translations:**_

Some of it might be insulting your intelligence to translate, and some is from the show, but I took care to translate everything back. I did, however, refrain from translating "LaCroix", (LOL) and the one explained in the story. Translations may be a tad liberal.

"Mon protégé." - My protégé, alt. "My favourite".

"Votre esclave." - Your slave (in the formal).

"Je ne suis pas votre esclave, LaCroix." - I am not your slave, LaCroix. (formal)

"Pourquoi est-ce que vous m'avez suivi?" - Why were you following me? (formal)

"Nicolas, je dédaigne de faire que tu dit." - Nicholas, it is too far beneath me to ever do what you speak of. (informal)

"Tu es vraiment plus qu'un esclave. - You are so much more than a slave. (informal)

"J'ai trop d'une prédiliction pour toi." - I find I have too much a special love (affection/fondness) for you. (informal)

"Mon frère." - My brother.

"Mon petit." - My son. (More lit., my child)

"Amant" - Lover

"Mon mari." - My husband

"Vous êtes revenu, mon mari beau." - You have returned (or, more lit, "come back"), my beautiful husband.

"C'est fantasique." - This/that is wonderful. (Lit. "It is fantastic.")

"Toutes mes félicitations, mon mari beau." - My congratulations, my beautiful husband.

* * *

_**Credit Sources**_

This story quoted many things, and here's where they came from:

"The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

Definition of "catamite" from the Collins English Dictionary (© 2000 HarperCollins Publishers), lightly paraphrased

"The Song of Solomon" from the Bible (by Solomon, or God, depending whom you believe)

"In My Naked Solitude" by Minerva T. Bloom

"I Heard it Through the Grapevine" by Marvin Gaye

"Love of my Life" by Freddie Mercury (Performed by Queen)


End file.
